The Unbecoming of Lucy Moon
by Demolition.Lover.14
Summary: Modern AU: "Why should I help you?" "Because we're the same, you and I. We're both mad. We both want to rid ourselves of the guilt." A murderer is on the loose in London. A barber and a teenager team together to stop him. But will they both come away alive?
1. Chapter 1

_**1)**_

I woke up to the sound of persistent beeping. There was not one part of my body that wasn't in pain. My head pounded repeatedly. My vision was blurry.

I blinked rapidly, feeling disorientated, and frowned when all I saw was white. I was lying in bed and my body felt heavy, but my I wasn't in my room; my room was a bright sunny yellow that Claire and I chose together when we redecorated our rooms.

My vision still blurry, I tried to interpret the hands on the clock on the opposite wall. I squinted, but it didn't help.

I could hear voices talking outside the room, but it felt like I was underwater; my ears were too blocked to hear what they were saying. Through my distorted vision, I could see the familiar dark hair of my mother.

"Mum," I croaked, my voice hoarse. My throat was dry and my lips were chapped. I needed a drink.

I squeezed my eyes shut. The door opened and my eyelids fluttered open.

"Lucy," my mother's voice said, letting out a heavy sigh of what I could only presume was relief. My vision no longer blurry, I fixed my eyes on her as she rushed to my bedside.

"Mum," I repeated, flinching at the effort. My lips felt like paper.

"Do you want a drink, love?" she asked, and I nodded. It hurt too much to talk.

My hands curled around a cold glass, shaking unsteadily as Mum helped me sit up straight. I had struggled to do so; my leg felt strangely heavy. The cool liquid trickled down my throat.

"Sip it," Mum told me firmly, taking the glass from me. "Or you'll make yourself sick."

I nodded and reached for the glass again. She gave it to me and I sipped the water, basking in the cold relief it provided.

Leaning back against the crisp pillow, I realised that Dad was leaning against the door, looking helpless. I stared at him for a moment, surprised to see him.

"What happened?" I asked, my eyes flickering from Mum to Dad and back to Mum.

I could only presume it was something serious if both of them were here and not at work. My parents were extreme workaholics.

"You were in an accident, honey," Dad said. I narrowed my eyes. It had to be serious if Dad was using terms of endearment.

"Where are Emma and Ricky?" I asked hazily.

"Outside," Dad said, his voice hoarse. I briefly wondered if he had been crying.

"I want to see them."

"In a minute," Mum said.

I wanted to argue, but I was too tired. Instead, my mind wandered to our previous conversation topic. I was in an accident.

My mind swam, desperately searching for memories. When was I in an accident?

"An accident?" I repeated, frowning.

Mum nodded.

"I don't drive."

"Not a car accident, sweetie," Mum said in a steady voice. She was a therapist, and therefore had a lot of experience of dealing with people that had gone through various traumas.

But what trauma had I been through?

"What do you last remember?"

I thought back.

I remembered it being Halloween and my birthday, both of which I hated. Unfortunately for me, they conincided; my birthday was on Halloween. After enduring a day of celebrations arranged by Mum, I prepared for a party Claire had organised . . .

"Going to the party," I said. "With Claire. And Maria. And Tyler."

Claire. My best friend. It was only because we were so close that I agreed to go to the party. She knew I disliked making a fuss on my birthday and so made the excuse that it was really a Halloween party. I smiled at the thought.

I remembered being annoyed Maria was going. Since we met her in year nine, she had been trying to take my place as Claire's best friend. I got my revenge by dating her sweet but slightly dim twin brother, Tyler.

"Anything else?" Mum asked, her hand brushing my hair behind my ear. I jerked away.

Hurt flashed in her eyes, but I barely noticed as I struggled to remember.

"We left the party . . . "

"Who's we?" Dad asked, also speaking in a steady voice. His lawyer voice.

"Claire, Maria, Tyler and I."

"Where did you go?"

"The asylum," I whispered.

It was Maria's idea and, of course, Claire went along with it. Tyler agreed to join and I somehow did the same.

The plan was to spend the night in the abandoned building, make a film, take a few photos and leave at dawn. Claire had a love of horror and wanted to look for the children's ward, where she planned on using a ouija board to contact any lingering spirits.

It was a daft plan, and full of risks, but Maria wanted to join the list of people that had done the same.

No one ever went into the asylum alone, though. One kid had done so years ago and messed around with the pulley system. He ended up getting trapped on the other side.

His body was found six months later.

Parents argued that the building was dangerous and it should've been taken down years ago, but it stayed where it was as a warning to other teenagers that planned on exploring it.

I looked at Mum, who had turned pale, and then at Dad, whose jaw had clenched.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You knew that building was dangerous," Dad said stiffly, but Mum shot him a look she thought I didn't see. I pretended not to.

"What happened?"

"The building collapsed." Mum looked at me closely, watching my reaction, before continuing. "You were trapped in a pocket of air, but by the time the ambulance arrived, you were unconcious."

"What's wrong with me?"

"Your leg is broken." I lifted the cover and saw the heavy cast surrounding my leg. That explained why it felt so heavy. "You broke a rib as well, but none of your organs were punctured."

Mum was hiding something from me, I could tell. I frowned.

"What else?"

She didn't meet my eyes as she answered. "You've got a few cuts and bruises on your face, but they won't leave a scar."

"Can I have a mirror?" I requested. Mum looked like she wanted to argue, but realised it wouldn't help. Instead, she took a hand mirror out of her handbag and handed it to me.

It wasn't as bad as I expected. As Mum said, there was several cuts and bruises but nothing serious. My lip was split as well.

Pushing back my hair, my eyes flickered to Mum, who was watching me anxiously. We were nothing alike. She was olive-skinned and had thick dark hair whereas I was pale with blonde hair.

I gave the mirror back to Mum.

"You can come home tonight, if you feel up to it," she said, putting the mirror away and smiling weakly.

I nodded. "What about Claire?"

Mum blinked. "What?"

"What about Claire?" I repeated slowly. "And Maria and Tyler? Are they ok?"

Mum didn't answer. I looked at Dad, but he refused to meet my confused gaze.

"Can I call Claire?"

"No, darling."

"Is she here? Are they all here?"

I looked around before realising that I was in a private room. I wondered if Claire was also in a private room; she'd love that.

"Can I go see them?"

"Lucy, honey, they were at the asylum with you," Mum told me gently.

"I know."

Mum stared at me with pleading eyes. I stared back at her, confused. I was slightly disorientated, but I didn't need everything repeated back to me. I knew that Claire and Maria and Tyler were at the asylum with me.

"They . . . didn't make it," Dad said in a gruff voice, ducking his head. I stared at him.

_No._

"How?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"The building collapsed, Lucy." Mum tried to take my hand, but I yanked it away from her.

"I know," I snapped. "But _how_?"

"It was an old building. You know that."

"We told you it was dangerous," Dad added. I glared at him through the tears that had gathered in my eyes.

"My friends are dead and all you can do is gloat?" I demanded furiously.

"He didn't mean it like that," Mum said quickly, trying to soothe me. "Lucy, dear - "

"Are you sure they didn't trapped too?" I asked, a hot tear sliding down my cheek.

Claire was dead.

My best friend was gone. The image of us walking into secondary school together for the first time sprung to my mind. I was so scared and she held my hand, assuring me that it would be alright.

_Claire . . . _

"We're sure," Mum said. "They found the - " She cut herself off.

"They found the what? Bodies?"

"Remains," she whispered.

Nasuea rolled over me.

Remains. Pieces.

"They didn't make it, honey. I'm so sorry."

* * *

It was sunny on the day of the move.

I stood on unsteady legs, not yet used to not having a cast or crutches anymore, and stared down at the three gravestones that were lined before me. Claire, Maria and Tyler's names were inscribed on them.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. I'd been crying for what felt like years and now that I was leaving my best friend behind, I couldn't.

Mum sat in the car, and I could feel her eyes on me. She was forever watching me.

I couldn't blame her. Finding your youngest daughter sobbing hysterically in the bathroom with bloody wrists and shards of glass surrounding her did make one want to keep one's eyes on their daughter.

It was my idea to move. The doctors considered having me sectioned. I suggested moving instead.

"I see Claire everywhere," I'd said. "I see her at home. And I want to go back to school, but I'll see her there as well."

So we decided to move.

We were going to London, which was a big difference from our tiny community. In London, I could easily get lost in the crowd and pretend I was vaguely normal, rather than see my dead best friend everywhere I looked.

Emma and Ricky had agreed to it without complaint; I couldn't have asked for a better sister and brother.

A honk from behind was a not so subtle reminder that we had to go. I shivered, even though it wasn't cold, and pulled my cardigan closer to me.

I wanted to say something to Claire, something that - despite being dead - would stay with her. I wanted to tell her that I'd miss her and how grateful I was that she was my best friend for a majority of my life.

Another honk made me jump. Mum was getting irritable.

"Bye," I whispered. "I'll miss you."

I turned around as Mum honked the horn a third time.

Taking in a deep breath, I walked away from my old life to start a new one.


	2. Chapter 2

_**2)**_

A girl died last night.

Stephanie Brown was nineteen and the oldest of three girls. She was a natural brunette, but dyed her hair blonde, and met a boy on an internet dating site after a series of pointless one night stands. She was last seen an hour before the date.

Her body was found later that evening.

She was murdered. Strangled to death, the marks on her neck suggested, and found in the woods. The only thing missing was her favourite ring, which she apparently never took off.

Forensic scientists suspect that she was raped before the time of her death.

"Don't read at the table, Lucy," Mum scolded, taking the newspaper from me as she passed.

"I don't know why you would you want to read that anyway," Emma said, grimacing at the paper when Mum passed her with it. She recoiled slightly, as if it was a snake ready to strike her. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"I like reading," I said quietly. I didn't add that the only thing Emma read the whole way through were those ridiculous gossip magazines she seemed to collect.

Emma snorted loudly and disbelievingly. "You're such a nerd, Lucy."

I chose not to respond. Rather than start an argument with my sister, who was far wittier and quicker at making comebacks than myself, I focused on my breakfast. The cereal was now nothing more than a congealed mush.

"Are either of you planning on getting dressed?" Mum asked while I pushed the mush around my bowl, grimacing.

"Nope," Emma said, popping the 'p'. She was wearing her cotton shorts with a matching tank top as pyjamas.

Mum laughed sarcastically. "Very funny, Emma. You're looking for a job today."

"But it's the first day of summer!"

"And I refuse to let you lounge about in your pyjamas anymore. You need to get a job and start paying your way."

For as long as I could remember, Emma never had a job. She left sixth form when she eighteen and, two years later, still had no job or aspirations.

"What, like perfect Ricky?"

Ricky, on the other hand, had been working since he was sixteen. It started off as simple jobs, such as paper rounds and washing dishes in a cafe, but he was now a waiter. He only got the job so easily because his previous boss gave him such a good reference.

"Lucy, you can go with her. Get a bit of fresh air."

I looked up from my bowl. "Will I have to get a job as well?" I asked. Mum frowned.

"Maybe not yet," she said carefully. "It's a bit soon."

I sighed. Mum was still watching me carefully, like I was a bomb about to explode. I could understand her worry for me, but it was frustrating.

So rather than argue, I disposed of the congealed mess in my bowl, grimacing at the sound it made as it hit the rubbish already piling up in the bin, and went upstairs. After a quick wash in the bathroom, I got dressed.

A flash of red in the mirror made me turn around. Gasping, I stumbled backwards.

Rather than seeing my own reflection, I saw Claire. Her red hair was cut into a pixie bob, something she did just before Halloween, and a wide grin spread across her freckled face.

"Don't get lost now," she said, winking.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Opening them, I saw my own reflection. My blonde hair tumbled down my shoulders, hints of pink and green weaved into the ends, and my own blue eyes stared at me.

"It's just my imagination," I whispered, shaking my head and turning my back on the mirror.

"Hey loser, are you ready?" Emma asked, opening my bedroom door with a total disregard that it was my personal and private space.

"Yes," I said, picking up my bag.

"Cool. Let's go."

We said goodbye to Mum, who told us sternly that we had to stick together at all times, and then left.

London was, as I expected, incredibly busy. People pushed past us as they rushed to and fro. Businessmen weaved through the crowds in their pressed suits, talking loudly into their mobiles and carrying briefcases. Mothers hearded their children together, calling their names and shouting orders over the noise. Tourists crowded around maps, cameras around their necks. Teenagers darted in and out of shops, used to this busy environment.

I walked close to Emma, feeling slightly uneasy in such a crowded environment. She seemed totally at ease, strolling along as if she'd lived in London her whole life. She wasn't afraid to shout at strangers, either.

"Oi, watch the hell where you're going!" she shouted over her shoulder as someone bashed into her. "Some people are so frickin' rude."

I agreed with her. I kept an eye out for places that had signs requesting job candidates for her while she navigated us through the busy streets, screaming at anyone that bashed into her or me.

"What about that place?" I suggested, pointing at a small cafe requesting waiters or waitresses. Emma grimaced.

"Can you really imagine me as a waitress?"

"You are a people person."

It was true. When she wasn't shouting abuse at them, Emma got on very easily with strangers. She had a knack for talking to them about anything and everything.

"We might as well give it a go," I added.

"Fine." Emma gave in with a dramatic sigh, crossing the road. I checked both ways before hurrying after her.

* * *

Emma was given a trial run at the cafe, starting next week, and texted Mum the good news. She insisted that we go to her office and, after her next appointment, we would go to lunch to celebrate.

On the outside, the building was fairly boring and would've been easily passed if we hadn't been looking for it. A few cars, including our mother's, were parked outside. The white paint was dirty and scraping off.

Inside was just as bad. The walls were an off-white colour and the scent of lavender, meant to relax people, lingered in the air. I coughed, briefly panicking that it might be something more sinister than lavender.

Ignoring my panic, Emma strode forwards and to the receptionist desk.

"How can I help you?" the receptionist asked, not even looking away from her computer.

"We're here to see our Mum," Emma said. "Jennifer Moon."

"I'm sorry, Mrs Moon is currently with a client but if you'd like to take a seat, she'll be done shortly."

Rolling her eyes and muttering profanities under her breath, Emma stormed away and dropped herself on the old sofa provided. It creaked beneath her weight. I perched on the end next to her.

After several minutes, in which Emma flicked through the magazines provided with a grimace, we finally heard Mum's voice.

" . . . next week, shall I, Sweeney?"

"Yes."

Mum came into view with her client at her side. He was the most peculiar man I'd ever seen.

His hair was a wild tangle, a white streak shooting across it. His face was pale and dark circles surrounded his eyes, as if he hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks. He looked beautiful, but tortured.

Seeing us, Mum beamed.

"Emma, Lucy," she said.

At the sound of my name, Sweeney, who was standing by the door, turned and looked at me.

His eyes, such a dark brown that they almost look black, stared at me in disbelief.

Oblivious to his reaction, Mum continued talking.

"It's brilliant that you got the job, Emma. I'm so proud of you."

Emma beamed. "I know, right? I probably wouldn't have gone in if Lucy hadn't have pointed it out."

Sweeney, who was still staring at me, frowned and looked away. I watched him as he opened the door and left.

"Who was that, Mum?" I asked quietly, still staring at the spot in which he previously stood.

"That's Sweeney Todd. He's one of my clients."

Mum signed out and, after collecting her belongings from her office, led Emma and I outside to her car. Emma sat in the front, next to Mum, and the two chatted about Emma's new job as a waitress.

I, however, couldn't keep my mind away from Sweeney Todd.

Why did he react to my name the way he did?

"Maybe because you're special," Claire said, and I jumped at the sound of her voice. I was fortunate enough that neither Mum nor Emma noticed. I reluctantly turned around and saw Claire sitting next to me.

"What?" I whispered, barely moving my lips.

She grinned. "You're special, Lucy. Haven't I always told you that?"

I squeezed my eyes shut.

By the time I opened them, Claire was gone.

* * *

Thank you WillyWonkaRocks and CadyD for reviewing!


	3. Chapter 3

_**3)**_

On the next day, the weather was good and, after checking the weather report, was going to remain so for the rest of the day. I nibbled a slice of toast to appease Mum at breakfast before having a quick wash and getting dressed. Packing my bag, I pulled my shoes on and walked downstairs.

"Are you going out?" Mum asked me casually, but I could see the worry in her eyes.

"Yes," I said. I put my bag on the kitchen table and looked at her. "Is that alright?"

"Yes, of course," she said quickly. "I'd offer to go with you but I have work again."

"Are you seeing Sweeney Todd today?"

Mum looked at me and frowned. "You know I can't tell you that, Lucy. Patient confidentiality."

I could feel colour rising to my cheeks, a feat considering I'd been as pale as a corpse since the accident.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I was just curious."

Mum gently cupped my chin, lifting my head, and smiled warmly. I hated it when she did that because it meant that I had to meet her scrutinizing gaze.

"You don't need to apologise," she said in too a gentle tone. I felt like a child. She then smiled. "He is a rather curious man, isn't he?"

I forced myself to grin as I nodded, picking my bag up.

"I won't be out long," I promised.

"Be as long as you like. Just . . . stay safe, alright?"

I remembered the murder of Stephanie Brown and nodded. I made a firm resolution to stay away from dark alleyways and other areas of London that often featured in horror movies that included serial killers and murderers. I didn't say this to Mum; I didn't want her to worry any more than she was.

"Here." Mum turned away and opened her handbag, taking out her purse. "Take this." She handed me a ten pound note.

"I have money, Mum."

"Well, now you have some more." Mum took my hand and pressed the money into my open palm. "Use it to buy yourself something nice for lunch."

I realised that Mum wasn't going to take no for an answer, a stubborness that I, along with my siblings, had inherited. Had I felt up to it, I would have argued that I didn't want to take Mum's money. However, I wanted to leave quickly and so accepted the money.

I mumbled a thank you and put the money in my purse.

"Have fun, darling." Mum kissed my cheek, brushing my hair behind my ear. I forced myself to smile.

"Bye Mum," I said, picking my bag up and leaving before she could do anything else. She'd always been an affectionate mother, but since the accident, she was forever brushing my hair or kissing my cheek and using pet names. Dad, when he was around, was very much the same. It unnerved me.

Without Emma, it was somewhat easier to navigate myself through London. Though I was still uneasy in the crowd, I didn't draw attention to myself as Emma did.

Then again, when I was with Emma, strangers seemed to bash into me less.

I glared at the stranger who bashed into me, feeling bruises on my shoulder form as I did so. Scowling, I turned a corner and continued walking.

I continued to walk before finally stopping at a corner shop, where I purchased a newspaper. The news on Stephanie Brown's murder was still spreading.

Tucking the newspaper into my bag, I walked for a another half an hour or so before finally stopping.

The part of London I'd ended up in was very unlike the London I experienced earlier, but I knew that I could find my way back from here. This area had many large houses, the streets were clean and pedestrians seemed to be a lot calmer. No one walked into each other or swore loudly. Instead, they greeted each other politely, exchanging pleasantries.

I found myself warming to this area of London, wondering if there were any signs that could indicate as to where I was. I kept a look out as I strolled towards a nearby bench, sitting down.

Now I was away from the confines of my home, where Mum simply took the newspaper and hid it from me, I could read the news at my leisure. I took the newspaper out of my bag and flicked straight to the article on the murder.

"A rather gruesome choice of reading for a young lady, isn't it?"

I looked up at the sound of a nasal voice, quickly examining the man who now stood over me. He was short, but stood with the air of a tall man, and his greasy hair brushed against his shoulders, framing his round face. I stared at him warily.

"Excuse me?"

"I do beg your pardon for interupting," he said politely, using a hand to gesture as he spoke. "But I couldn't help but notice that your reading choice is rather gruesome."

I looked at him and then at the newspaper in my hands, frowning.

"I wasn't aware that the murder of a young woman could be described as gruesome," I said.

"Perhaps gruesome was not the correct word to use." The man frowned before gesturing towards the bench. "May I?"

I nodded somewhat warily, shuffling to the side in what I hoped was a subtle manner as he took a seat next to me. It was only then that I noticed a cane in one of his gloved hands.

"May I ask why you're reading about the murder of a young woman presumably not much older than yourself?" he inquired.

"I'm interested," I said. "Somewhat. My friends used to call me Nancy Drew." I wasn't sure why I told this strange man something so personal; it just slipped out.

"The teenage detective," the man noted, nodding. "Interesting . . . "

I didn't like the way he said that and, feeling eyes on me, looked up. I could've sworn that the curtains of the large manor opposite me twitch slightly, as if someone was shutting them quickly, but my eyes were caught by another movement.

Tyler was standing across the road from me, his arms folded as he scowled at the man sitting next to me. I stared at him, my brow furrowed slightly.

"Get away from him," he said. I looked at the man next to me, but he didn't seem to react to Tyler's words. I then realised that I was the only who could hear or see him.

"What?"

"Pardon?" The man stared at me inquiringly. I blinked.

"Sorry, I have to go," I said quickly, standing up. "It was nice speaking with you."

"Likewise." The man fixed his beady eyes on me as he added, "I hope we meet again."

I could hear an underlying threat in his words, but dismissed the thought as me being paranoid. Forcing myself to smile back, I folded the newspaper and walked away at what I hoped to be a normal pace. The moment I turned a corner and the man was out of sight, I ran.

I was unsure as to how long I ran, but I eventually slowed down into a jog and then stopped, panting heavily. I wasn't an athlete, that was for certain.

My hands on my knees and my back slightly bent, I lifted my head and looked around. I'd run from the posh part of London to the part of London that harboured people of ill repute, it seemed. My earlier resolution was screamed at me in my mind. I straightened up immediately.

Looking around, I finally spotted a sign. Two words were printed on it.

_Fleet Street._

I looked around anxiously, but saw no one on this grimy street. I walked along slowly, the pavement cracked beneath my feet.

"'ello, beautiful!"

I jumped as several men emerged from an alleyway. Their jovial manner and inability to walk straight told me that they were clearly drunk. Unfortunately, I was the only person on the street other than them.

I gave them a small smile before continuing to walk, hoping that would appease them. Apparently, it didn't.

"Aw, don't be like that," one of them called, stumbling across the street. I stared at him in horror as he approached me.

"Please leave me alone," I whispered, trying to walk away. He grabbed my arm, holding it in a surprisingly tight grip for an intoxicated man.

"Spend a little time with us," he said in what I presumed he thought to a seductive tone. I tried to pull away.

"Stay with us, gorgeous," another man said, playing with my hair. Another man stumbled forwards, releasing me from the other two and then pushing me against the wall.

"Leave me alone," I said again, close to tears. His hand trailed against my cheek.

"Get off her."

The men stumbled backwards at the sound of another voice, laughing and jeering at the figure that was standing not too far from us.

"You wanna go at 'er, barber?" one of them teased, slurring his words.

"Get off her," the man repeated, stepping forwards. I realised it was Sweeney Todd, relief washing over me.

"Or what?"

"Or I will make you regret it," he promised in a low voice, his tone dangerously calm. I saw a glint of silver in his hand, but it was gone before I could see what it was. My relief was replaced by horror; what if he had a knife?

The men seemed to have seen what it was, as they backed away with wary glances. I watched them as they stumbled away, frozen against the wall with fear.

A strong hand took my arm and dragged me down the street, towards the shop on the corner. I let Sweeney take me up the wooden stairs and into the small room they led to, despite having never properly met the man. I didn't know if I could trust him. He was a patient of my mother's; I didn't even know if he was safe to be with.

All I knew was that he'd just saved me, and for that I was incredibly grateful.

The room he took me to was surprisingly large and bare. A bed was in one corner, a chair in the centre and a dressing table in the opposite corner to the bed. The most distinctive feature was the large window that dominated a wall, overlooking the rooftops of London.

"Sit down."

Realising my legs were about to give way, I perched on the large trunk by the door, shutting my eyes.

"Thank you," I said quietly, opening my eyes. Sweeney was standing as far away from me as he possibly could, his back to the window, as he gazed at me almost warily.

"You shouldn't be alone," he said, barely meeting my gaze.

"I didn't realise I was going to be attacked by a group of drunk men." I shuddered at the memory, leaning back against the wall. Tears gathered in my eyes, but I blinked them away.

I drew my legs to my chest, hugging them, as my eyes darted around the room. They finally focused on the flash of silver I saw in Sweeney's hand before. My heart missed a beat.

It was a razor. An old fashioned razor with an engraved handle and long blade.

My eyes focused on the dangerously sharp razor. With a flick of his wrist, this man could slit my throat and kill me if he wanted to.

Realising where my eyes had focused, Sweeney put the blade away and crossed the room. I shifted back slightly, but he stopped at the dressing table.

I watched him as he put the razor away in a box, my eyes widening when I saw several more razors. Rather than take them out and attack me with them like a wild man, he shut the box.

"I won't hurt you," he said quietly, his back turned to me as he gazed down at the box in his hands.

"I'm sorry."

I wasn't sure as to why I apologised. Maybe because I felt guilty for presuming that he was going to hurt me.

Sweeney looked at me and then looked away quickly, but not before I saw the hurt in his eyes. I looked down at my knees, feeling even more guilty for seeing this man at such a tender moment despite not knowing him.

I slid off the trunk and walked to the closest window, a small one by the door. I looked out.

"I think the drunks are gone," I said. "I should go."

I looked at Sweeney. His jaw had clenched slightly.

"Thank you for helping me. And for bringing me here."

He didn't respond. I brushed a strand of hair behind my ear.

"I'm Lucy, by the way," I said. "Lucy Moon. My Mum is your therapist."

"Yes," he said quietly. "We saw each other yesterday."

"Oh yeah, I forgot," I lied. How could I forget the way he reacted to my name? "I'll tell Mum that you helped me," I added with a shaky laugh. "Get you in her good books."

"No," he said sharply, spinning around to face me so quickly that I jumped.

"Alright, well, thank you anyway. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't helped me . . . " I glanced out the window once more and grimaced. "This is a big ask, but I don't suppose you could walk me down the street?"

Sweeney stared at me, mild disbelief in his eyes, before nodding once. It was a sharp, jerky movement.

As I asked, Sweeney escorted me down the street and around the corner. Neither of us spoke, but his presence was strangely comforting. I knew that I wasn't going to be attacked when Sweeney was with me.

"Thank you," I said softly when we turned the corner. Sweeney acknowledged me with a small nod and, without another word, walked away.

I took in a deep breath before also continuing to walk.

I owed my life to Sweeney Todd, a man I barely knew. All I knew was that he was one of my Mum's patients, and was therefore either mentally unstable or had been through some kind of trauma.

Walking along, I frowned. Curiousity flared up inside me; I had to know the man I owed my life to.

I stopped as an idea sprung to my mind.

My mother would have a file or records of some sort on Sweeney; she was his therapist. My ideas grew as I contemplated this.

I had to get those files.

But, first, I had to get some lunch.

* * *

Thank you TeenySweeney, CadyD, dionne dance, TheBrightsider and WillyWonkaRocks for reviewing!

If you are curious as to what Lucy looks like, there is a link on my profile to my Fanfiction tumblr; her picture, as well as my other many OCs, has been posted on it.


	4. Chapter 4

_**4)**_

"Well, this is a nice surprise," Mum said happily as she unwrapped her cheese and tomato baguette, taking a large bite. I took a seat on one of her chairs, unwrapping my own chicken baguette.

"I thought you might like some lunch considering you're always busy."

This was, of course, a lie. I needed a legitimate excuse to stop by Mum's office so to investigate her files on Sweeney Todd. First, however, I needed her to somehow leave her office long enough for me to find said file and read it.

I did consider asking her about him, but I knew that Mum would scold me; she always abided to the rule of patient confidentiality.

"So," Mum said, now sipping the coffee I'd also brought her. "What have you been up to?"

"Nothing really," I lied, avoiding eye contact. "Just walking around."

I could feel Mum's eyes on me, scrutinizing my face, but I focused on my baguette.

"Will Dad be home for dinner tonight?" I asked, changing the subject abruptly. Since we moved, Dad was hardly around.

"I don't know," Mum said. "He's been doing a lot of work recently." Her expression changed slightly; she looked sad. Despite everything, she and Dad were still strong and loved each other. For that, I was grateful.

As Mum continued eating her lunch, I looked around her office.

It was plain white, but Mum had framed and hung up her certificates. A filing cabinet stood against the wall opposite me and several books on mental illness and diseases were piled on the shelves.

I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder by the doctors before we moved. That explained my nightmares and, to some extent paranoia. It didn't, however, explain seeing my dead friends nearly everywhere I went.

"Mrs Moon?" I looked over my shoulder as the receptionist poked her head around the doorway. "Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Moon, but your client is here."

"Oh." Mum sighed, wrapping her baguette up. "I won't be long," she said to me. "An hour, tops. You can stay if you want to."

"I might go home."

"Finish your lunch first, dear," Mum said, standing up and opening her filing cabinet. I watched her flick through the folders and take one out. Kissing the top of my head, she said goodbye to me and left.

Wrapping up my baguette, I stood up. I shut the office door before crossing the room and opening Mum's filing cabinet.

To my relief, the files were arranged alphabetically. I sorted through the files before finding the one that was labeled _Todd, Sweeney._

Taking out the file, I opened it and took out the few sheets that were tucked inside. I couldn't just take them, because Mum would guess it was me, but saw a photocopier in the corner of Mum's office.

It didn't take long to photocopy everything, and when I was done, I disposed of any evidence. Putting the original papers back into the file, I put them away into the filing cabinet. I folded the photocopied papers and tucked them into my bag.

After scribbling a quick note to Mum, I left the office.

* * *

I lay on my stomach, my bare feet in the air behind me, and read the papers from Sweeney's file. As far as I could tell, he didn't suffer from any mental illnesses, but was seeing Mum due to the deaths of his wife, daughter, landlady and landlady's adopted son.

Police reports told me that Sweeney's wife had been raped and commited suicide shortly afterwards. His daughter disappeared when she was fifteen and has been announced dead. His landlady - this made me shudder - got trapped in a large and old fashioned oven. She was burned alive.

In a way, Sweeney and I were alike. Both of us had lost the people closest to us.

Did he suffer from PTSD? Did he see the dead and hear their voices?

A soft knock at the door made me jump. Shuffing the papers under my pillow, I sat up.

"You can come in, Ricky," I said loud enough for my voice to travel across the room and through the door. The door opened and Ricky looked walked in, looking slightly bemused.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked, shutting the door behind him.

"You're the only one who knocks so gently," I said, shuffling up my bed so Ricky could sit down. He had just come home from work; he was still in his uniform. His shirt was untucked and the top two buttons were undone. His hair was scruffy, and I knew he'd been running his hand through it.

"You've memorised our knocks," Ricky said, grinning. He didn't seem too surprised.

"Only you and Dad knock," I corrected. "And Dad has a pattern for his knocks. Mum and Emma just come in."

Ricky grimaced. "Yeah, Mum does that to me as well."

"She's a brave woman."

"What do you mean?"

"Who knows what unsavoury things a teenage boy could be doing in his room."

Ricky laughed, shaking his head. "You shouldn't know about things like that," he said.

"I'm sixteen, Ricky," I pointed out.

"So?"

"So secondary schools teach teenagers everything they possibly can about sex before said teenagers are legally old enough to engage in sexual contact. I think they think by giving us the gory details, we'll be put off."

"And have you?"

I shrugged. Yes, Tyler and I had engaged in sexual contact before he died, but it was never anything really serious. We never had sex, but Tyler liked to put his hands up my shirt. I never complained.

"Ricky, can I ask you for some advice?"

"Sure." Ricky grinned. "I can't promise that it'll be very good though."

"This is purely hypothetical," I warned him.

"Which translates to don't tell Mum."

I opened my mouth and then shut it again. I couldn't deny that I what I was about to say to Ricky I didn't want repeated to Mum.

Sensing my inner turmoil, Ricky grinned. "I won't tell her. Nothing said in this room will leave this room," he promised me. He held his little finger out. "Pinky promise."

"The original concept of the pinky promise was that the person to break the promise would have their finger chopped off."

Ricky stared at me for a moment before withdrawing his hand.

"You know the weirdest things, Lucy."

"I like to consider myself well read."

"Because well read people are less likely to be evil," he said wisely, but I knew he was only paraphrasing the works of Lemony Snicket. I raised an eyebrow. "Alright, what's this hypothetical advice I have to give you?"

"The advice isn't hypothetical, the situation is." I rolled my eyes. "Hypothetically, a person is helped by another person that they don't know personally. The two people have briefly met once."

"How have the people met?" Ricky asked. "Hypothetically, of course," he added.

"The person helping is a client of the mother of whom he just helped."

Ricky nodded. "Please continue."

"How does the person who has been helped thank the person that helped them?"

Leaning back, Ricky frowned as he considered this for a moment. I supposed that anyone else would've been mildly confused by our conversation, but Ricky and I understood each other. It wasn't unusual for me to seek advice from my brother.

"I suppose it depends on the personality of the person that helped that person that needed help," he finally said. "Can you describe the person?"

I looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Sorry, can you hypothetically describe this hypothetical person?"

I rolled my eyes, gently nudging him with my foot. "Now you're just being daft," I said, but not unkindly. "This person is . . . isolated. It didn't seem as if they had many friends or family members."

Ricky nodded as I said this, still frowning thoughtfully.

"I suppose that, if I was this isolated but hypothetical person, I would appreciate the company more than anything. But if you wanted to show the gratitude through materialistic devices, I would do something like make cakes."

I frowned doubtfully. "I'm not very good at making cakes," I mumbled, forgetting that our discussion was purely hypothetical.

"Get one of those cake mixes," he said, deliberately ignoring me forgetting the hypothetical nature of our talk. "Even you can't mess that up, Lucy."

I blushed, ducking my head. Ricky laughed, reaching out and squeezing my hand.

"Whoever this hypothetical person is," he said. "I'm sure they would appreciate the hypothetical gesture, even if it wasn't perfect."

* * *

I was prepared.

I'd dressed in dark jeans, a baggy t-shirt and a hoodie to conceal my girlish figure. My hair was tied back and, as I turned the corner of Fleet Street, I pulled my hood up to hide my identity. Hopefully if there were any drunks, they would ignore me.

I paused at the corner, looking up at the building Sweeney had taken me into. Rubbing one of the windows with the sleeve of my hoodie, I peered in through one of the dirty windows. It was very dark and dusty.

But I wasn't here to judge. Taking a step back, I then continued walking and opened the small wooden gate that would lead into the courtyard of the building.

The wooden stairs creaked beneath my feet as I walked up, hopefully giving Sweeney some warning of my arrival. Unless he had seen me walk down the street.

The balcony was short but it seemed to last forever as I walked across it. I stopped outside the door before reaching out and knocking.

A long silence followed by my knock and I wondered if Sweeney was out.

"Come in," a low voice suddenly ordered.

I took in a deep breath, feeling slightly fearful, before opening the door and stepping into the room.

It was just as dark as I remembered it being, and possibly even dustier. Sweeney stood with his back to me, facing the window, but I could see his reflection. Seeing my reflection, he turned around slowly and stared at me.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, disbelief colouring his tone.

Opening my bag, I took out the tupperware of homemade cupcakes and held them out.

"They're for you," I said feebly. Sweeney stared a them, making no effort to take them. "To say thank you," I added. "For yesterday."

"You didn't need to," he said, still standing as far away from me as he possibly could in the room.

"I wanted to."

Sweeney stared at me a moment longer before looking away. He had an expression that reminded me of a lost child, so weak and vulnerable.

I felt irrationally guilty. I'd never been good at comforting people and Sweeney looked as if he was feeling rather fragile in my presence. Not to mention I felt as if I'd intruded on his privacy by reading his file.

"I'll just put them here," I said carefully, walking forwards and putting them on the dressing table, lingering for as long as I dared to. I then walked back to my spot by the door. "Don't worry about the tupperware . . . we have loads at home."

Sweeney stared at the tupperware warily.

"I read your file," I blurted out, and then blushed.

Sweeney slowly lifted his head and met my eyes, frowning. His mouth was open slightly as he turned his head to the side, silently asking me what I was talking about.

"Sorry." My cheeks turned a deeper red. "You're my Mum's client and I read your file." I forced myself to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry about your wife. And your daughter. And your landlady."

"Why did you come here?" Sweeney asked me suddenly, still staring at me.

"To say thank you." I gestured towards the tupperware of cakes. "And sorry. About reading your file."

"The world is full of heinous things." Sweeney turned his back on me.

"I know."

I spoke before I could stop myself, and Sweeney stopped himself on turning around. Slowly, he looked at me.

"I know what it's like," I continued shakily. "To loose someone."

"How would you know?" he said bitterly, a hint of mocking in his voice.

"Because three of my friends are dead." I hesitated before adding, "They died in an accident. I was the only one who survived."

Sweeney stared at me for a long time before I finally broke eye contact, looking down at the floor.

"Thank you," I finally said. "For the help. I won't bother you again."

I offered him a small smile before turning away and opening the door.

"Wait."

I stopped, looking over my shoulder. "Yeah?"

"You can come back," Sweeney said, looking as if he was struggling to speak. "If you want to."

I stared at Sweeney, briefly unable to comprehend that he had just invited me to return to his shop. He obviously had a reason for it, but I wasn't going to divulge into it, not now.

"Thank you," I said. "I will."

Without another word, I left Sweeney's shop. As I turned the corner, I looked over my shoulder and smiled.

I was certain that I saw him in the window, watching me leave.

* * *

Thank you CadyD and dionne dance for reviewing!


	5. Chapter 5

_**5)**_

Another girl was murdered last night.

Marie Rice was twenty one and had a two year old son, who had now been placed in the care of his father. She was a natural blonde and was last seen by her friends at a bar, where she left early to meet a client.

Again, her body was later found that evening.

Like Stephanie Brown, Marie Rice was strangled to death. Her necklace, which she had been wearing that evening, was missing. She had engaged in sexual intercourse before her time of death.

Everyone was in a rush this morning, so no one noticed me reading the newspaper at the table. Dad had already left for work. Mum was on the phone as she gathered her papers together, putting them in her bag. Emma was making breakfast. Ricky was ironing his shirt. It was hetic.

"Uh huh," Mum said, scribbling something on one of her many papers. "No, I can't do that. Alright, if you move that appointment back half an hour then - get out of the way, Emma! No, not you, Mark."

Emma scowled at Mum, picking up her toast and applying liberal amounts of strawberry jam to it. My stomach clenched as it immediately made me think of blood.

"What?" she demanded, seeing me stare.

"Nothing," I mumbled, looking away.

"Yes, alright - why didn't you do that last night, Ricky?" Mum hissed as she squeezed past the ironing board. That and the table dominated the kitchen, leaving essentially no room for people to move around.

Mum's heels clicked against the floor as she left the kitchen, still talking into her phone. Ricky made a face at her retreating back. I smiled.

"Finally!" he cried triumphantly, lifting his shirt and admiring it. He put it on over his white t-shirt and buttoned it up, tucking it into his trousers. "Well, I'd better go before I'm late. See ya."

"Wait." I stood up and smoothed down his collar, which had been at a funny angle. Ricky smiled at me gratefully before leaving.

"Ok Mark, thank you," Mum said, walking into the kitchen with another file in her hand. "I'll see you soon. Bye."

I looked up from the newspaper, folding it and sliding it under the table. She didn't seem to notice the action as she put away the rest of her papers, and the file, into her bag.

"What are your plans today, girls?" she asked, closing her bag and putting it onto her shoulder.

"Shopping," Emma said around a large bite of toast, her voice slightly muffled.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Emma," Mum scolded, frowning. Despite her age, Emma seemed to have a total lack and disregard for manners most of the time. Should she need to, she could be one of the most polite young women I knew. Most of the time she was just a slob.

Rolling her eyes, Emma swallowed her mouthful. "Shopping," she repeated clearly.

"Again?"

"You can never do too much shopping." Emma looked appalled and shocked by Mum's disbelief. "Plus I'm meeting up with a couple of the girls that work at the cafe. They're going to tell me what it's like being a waitress."

This was a lie; I knew that she and her friends were going to shop, gossip and bitch. They might also buy a glass or two of wine at lunchtime.

"Oh, why don't you take Lucy?"

I looked up at the sound of my name, surprised that I'd just been volunteered to be Emma's shopping buddy. I grimaced and, out of the corner of my eye, saw that Emma had too.

"No offence, Lucy, but no," she said.

"None taken. I don't want to go shopping with you."

"Why not?" Mum frowned at us both. "You're sisters. You should want to do things together."

Emma and I exchanged looks, sizing each other up. We had completely different definitions of fun. She enjoyed shopping and sitting in pubs with a glass of wine and a hot boy. I, however, much preferred the library and small cafes, where I could have a hot chocolate and read my book in peace.

"Maybe not, then," Mum muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, I'm not coming home tonight," Emma announced. "One of the girls I'm meeting is having a sleepover thing."

"You're a bit old for sleepovers," I pointed out. Emma glared at me.

"I am not."

"Ricky won't be here tonight, though," Mum said. "Nor will your father and I be."

"Why not?" I asked, frowning.

"Your father has got a night off and we were going for dinner." Mum's cheeks darkened slightly as she blushed. "I presumed that Emma was staying in tonight."

"I'll be fine," I told her.

"Are you sure? We can always stay at home if you rather we did."

I had a sudden and childish urge to beg Mum to stay home with me tonight so I wouldn't be on my own, but I didn't. Instead, I forced myself to smile up at her.

"No," I said firmly. "You and Dad should go out."

"Alright, well, I might see you after work. There's a pizza in the fridge you can have for dinner." Mum kissed Emma and then me. "Be good."

The moment Mum shut the front door behind her, Emma jumped up.

"I'm going to get ready," she announced, leaving the kitchen. I could hear her heavy footsteps as she walked up the stairs and to her room.

I decided to follow suit, leaving the kitchen with my newspaper in hand. I got dressed in my bedroom and reluctantly sat at my dressing table, facing the mirror.

Looking up, I expected to see Claire staring back at me, but only saw my reflection. A slight pang of disappointment hit me, but I quickly dismissed it as I dragged a brush through my unruly hair, tying it back into a ponytail.

"Bye Lucy," Emma called as she passed my room.

"Bye," I called back. It was only when I heard the front door shut that I pulled on my shoes and picked my bag up, ready to leave.

"Have fun."

I turned around, staring at Claire as she lounged on my bed, grinning widely at me. She was lying on her stomach, her feet in the air behind her.

I smiled back weakly. "I will."

* * *

It was colder than the previous days I'd be outside. Grateful for my many layers, I persevered in walking through the crowds and dodging people as veered from side to side. It was difficult without Emma.

Spotting a cafe, I looked both ways before crossing the road, narrowly missing a speeding motorcyclist. I walked into the cafe, immediately greeted with warmth and a pleasant atmosphere. People sat in booths and around tables, reading and talking to each other quietly.

At the counter, I ordered a hot chocolate and a large chocolate muffin. I'd skipped breakfast that morning and was beginning to regret it.

I found an empty table next to the large window that dominated one wall. I put my purchases down, eating a small spoonful of the whipped cream that was on top of my hot chocolate. I took my newspaper out, turning to the page of Marie Rice's murder and, breaking off a bit of my muffin, began to read.

I was rather content, sitting in this cafe. I could drink hot chocolate, eat a muffin and read. No one would suspect that I'd been in an accident or saw my now dead friends nearly everywhere I went. Even I could pretend that I was normal, if it was only for an hour or so.

"Hello again."

Looking up, I frowned at the stranger standing across from me. I vaguely recognized him - his nasal voice in particular - but I couldn't quite tell why.

Realisation dawned on me; we met as I was reading the news on the first murder.

"Are you following me?" I blurted out, and then blushed.

The man didn't seem offended. If anything, he looked rather amused by my outburst.

"Mere coincidence," he said with a wave of his hand. "This happens to be one of my favourite establishments and when I saw you here in the corner, I thought it rude not to say hello."

"Oh. Well, hello."

I hoped that now he had said hello, the stranger would leave me in peace. He remained opposite me, however, before sitting down. I inwardly groaned.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," he said. "Bamford. Julian Bamford." He extended his hand. I shook it.

"Lucy Moon," I said quietly, reluctantly revealing my surname. I'd read about the consequences of giving personal details to strangers, though most of it did apply to being on the internet.

Bamford frowned. "Lucy Moon . . . where have I heard that name before?"

I waited for his face to light up as he announced that he'd read my name in the paper. He'd then look solemn as he'd offer his condolences, maybe even comment on the luck of my survival. It was what most people did.

His face suddenly lit up, and I prepared myself for what was to come.

"I know your father," he said, surprising me. "He's a lawyer, isn't he?"

"Are you a lawyer as well?" I asked doubtfully. Somehow, he didn't strike me as the sort of man I'd like to defend me in court should I need him.

He laughed, an unpleasant sound that was even more nasal than his voice.

"No, no," he said, shaking his head. "Though I have been told I am a paragon of integrity."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I nodded politely and tried to look interested, but not so much so that it fed his already large ego. Apparently there were enough people doing that already.

"Your father said you moved here because you were involved in an accident of some sorts." Bamford's eyes studied my face, focusing on the faded scars that still remained. They were small and easy to miss. "Was it serious?"

"Yes," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "But it was the consequence of stupidity and recklessness."

"Your friends died, didn't they?" Bamford pressed. "My most sincere condolences."

"Thank you." I grabbed my newspaper and bag. "I have to go."

Before he could say anything else, I left the cafe. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I walked, desperate to get as far away from that cafe and Bamford as I could.

* * *

"The back door is locked and all the windows are shut," Mum said as she tied her long dark hair back. "I have my keys so don't answer the door to anyone."

"I won't," I promised.

Mum was sitting at her dressing table, getting ready for her dinner with Dad, and I sat behind her on their bed. She looked beautiful in a simple dark green gown, and I suddenly felt proud to say that she was my Mum.

"If someone rings the home phone asking for your father or me, just tell them that we're not available now," she continued, now putting her earrings in. "Don't let anyone know that you're on your own."

"I won't."

"We won't be back too late. You can watch TV or a DVD if you like, but don't stay up all night waiting for us. If you feel tired, go to bed."

"I will."

Mum stopped, turning on her stool to look at me. She knew that, to some extent, I was simply humouring her, but I was also being serious. I knew her concerns were serious; there was a murderer in London.

"You can ring either of us at any point in the evening," she told me. "And we will come straight home."

"I'll be fine," I assured her. Smiling, Mum stood up.

"I know you will. I just worry about you."

And with good reason, I knew.

"Mum."

"Yes, dear?"

"You look pretty," I said softly, smiling up at her. Mum's expression softened as she leaned down and kissed my forehead.

"Thanks, darling. See you later."

Shortly after she and Dad left, I cooked my pizza and ate it in front of the TV. When I finished, I put my dishes in the kitchen and, deciding there was nothing I wanted to watch, turned the TV off and went upstairs.

I sat in my room, the curtains closed and my door shut, with my book. I put a DVD on for background noise while I read.

I froze when I heard the front door open.

Sitting up like a rabbit caught in the headlights, I listened for more noises. When I heard none, I tried to convince myself that it was just my imagination. I wasn't sure, though.

Putting my book down, I left my room and sneaked into Mum and Dad's room. I picked up Mum's tennis racket, a poor choice of defence, and left the bedroom.

I didn't call out as I walked down the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible. My heart missed a beat when I saw that the front door was slightly ajar.

I continued walking, frowning as I descended into darkness. Had I turned the lights off before I went to my room?

It seemed highly unlikely; I didn't like the dark.

It wasn't the dark that I was afraid of, truthfully. It was what was hidden in the shadows that scared me.

I crept down the hallway and into the living room, my heart racing. Holding the tennis racket high, I walked into the kitchen.

A pair of hands grabbed me from behind. I started to scream, but the attacker slapped a hand over my mouth, stopping me. Their other hand held both my wrists in a strong grip.

"Stop looking into the murders," a voice hissed in my ear, sending shivers down my spine as I struggled. "Or you will regret it."

That was the last thing I remembered before sudden pain seared through my head. My body caved in on itself as I fell to the ground, hitting the floor with a loud thud. My eyes slowly slid shut as I fell unconcious.

* * *

Thank you PurpleandBlackPandas, WillyWonkaRocks, CadyD and dionne dance for reviewing! There was no Sweeney in this chapter, but he will be making an appearance in the next!


	6. Chapter 6

_**6)**_

They were talking about me. I could hear them talk in hushed voices, unaware of my presence at the top of the stairs. I rested my head against the banister as I listened.

"She was doing so well," Mum said, worry clear in her tone. "The move really helped her. What if this just sends her back into that state she was in?"

"I don't know," Dad muttered, the floor creaking as he paced.

"I just don't understand how they could've got in. They must've got the keys somehow."

"Mine are always in my drawer."

"And mine are always in my bag. I know that Ricky wouldn't be daft enough to leave his keys out . . . "

"Nor would Emma," Dad said sternly. "Or Lucy. Our children aren't stupid."

"I know. I'm just so worried."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I looked up.

Ricky smiled at me sadly as he sat on the step below me, his legs curled up. Shortly after, Emma joined us, sitting on the step below Ricky and spreading herself out, her lips pursed together as she listened to our parents talk.

"They're talking about us," she said quietly. I nodded.

"Aren't they always?" Ricky asked, a hint of teasing in his voice. Emma glared at him.

"It pisses me off," she muttered. "Why can't they just talk to us?"

I silently agreed with her. We were all of that age in which our parents could talk to us about serious issues.

I wrapped my arms around myself as a shiver ran down my spine, my fingers absent mindedly tracing the outlines of the bruises on my arms.

"I'm just worried," Mum said, her footsteps growing louder. "Especially about Lucy. This sort of thing can really send her back to where she was after the accident."

Mum stepped out into the corridor, followed by Dad, and both of them stopped when they saw us gathered on the stairs. Mum's mouth opened, as if she wanted to speak, but she was clearly struggling to find the words. Blushing, she looked away.

Dad looked disappointed to find that we'd been eavesdropping, but didn't comment on it as he took off his glasses.

"Lucy, it's easy to misunderstand the context if you haven't heard the whole conversation," he said, cleaning his glasses.

"How could I misunderstand?" I asked bitterly, standing up "I am the context."

* * *

The next day, breakfast was silent and awkward.

Dad sat at the head of the breakfast table, having finally gotten a day off work, and read his newspaper while sipping his coffee. Mum fidgeted in her seat, constantly asking us if we wanted something more to eat or drink. Emma pulled her toast apart, nibbling on the crusts, and Ricky ate everything that was put in front of him.

I stared down at my bowl of cereal, which was once again nothing more than a congealed mush. I grimaced at the squelch it let out when I pushed my spoon into it.

Catching Emma's eye from across the table, she grinned rather childishly, looking as if she was trying not to giggle. I looked at Ricky, who seemed to be suffering the same problem.

"Emma, Lucy, stop playing with your breakfast," Dad ordered irritably.

"I'm not hungry," I mumbled, pushing the bowl away.

"You ought to eat something," Mum said.

"I'm not hungry," I repeated.

"Eat your breakfast, Lucy." Dad pushed the bowl back in front of me. I looked up at him, surprised.

When we were young, Dad wasn't overly affectionate. If he read to us, it was usually from the newspaper or an educational magazine. We were never permitted to sit on his lap, but rather cross legged on the floor in front of him. He spent time with each of us and took us out, but not because he really wanted to. It was as if he felt obligated to.

He let Mum do the parenting. He was always just there, ready to back her up if we dared defy her word or punishment. It was odd for him to suddenly take control.

"Why?" I asked.

Mum frowned, her eyes darting from Dad to I. Emma looked up slowly and Ricky froze, staring at his plate.

"Your lunch will be very small," Dad said calmly. "Because we have a guest coming over for dinner tonight."

"Who?" Emma asked, frowning.

"One of your father's work colleagues," Mum said.

"Why?"

"Have you done something wrong, Dad?" Ricky asked with a wide grin. "Are you hoping that dinner will bribe them into letting you off?"

Dad smiled back. "You've got it, Ricky."

Ricky had always been Dad's favourite, purely because he was the only boy, which is why they got on so well.

Rolling my eyes, I pushed my bowl away for a final time and stood up.

Dad glared at me, but didn't say anything as I took the bowl to the sink. I emptied the congealed mess into the bin before putting the bowl in the sink.

"I'm going to my room," I announced.

I left the kitchen. Emma and Ricky were quick to follow, apparently asked to leave by our parents.

"They're talking about us again," Emma muttered furiously, storming past me and up the stairs.

"They're talking about me," I corrected quietly and miserably.

"You don't know that."

I looked up at Ricky and he met my gaze steadily.

I wanted to disagree with Ricky and point out that since the accident, I was usually the subject of our parent's hushed discussions. They were worried about me. So much so that they felt they couldn't talk to me about my condition.

But I didn't have the energy. I'd barely slept the previous night and, though I didn't say it aloud, I was still shaken from the attack.

So rather than argue with Ricky, I simply shook my head and walked past him.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"My room."

Once in my room, I shut the door firmly and loudly, letting everyone know that I didn't want to be disturbed. I curled up on my bed and somehow fell asleep.

* * *

"Lucy . . . Lucy, wake up, darling."

Frowning, I slowly opened my eyes and looked up at Mum, who was standing over me and gently shaking me awake.

"Mum?"

"Your father's work colleague will be here in a minute," she said as I sat up. "Just put on a clean t-shirt and come downstairs, alright?"

As Mum left my room, I got up from my bed and shuffled to my wardrobe. I took off my shirt and replaced it with the first t-shirt I picked up. I tied my hair back and slipped my feet into my comfy plimsolls before leaving my room.

I got to the top of the stairs just as there was a knock at the front door. I hesitated slightly as Dad came into view.

He didn't notice me, and instead opened the front door.

"Nathaniel," he greeted our guest brightly, a tone I knew was false. "Please, come in."

Dad stepped to the side, allowing our guest entrance to our home. He was tall, taller than Dad, and had wore the signs of ageing like badges of honour. He looked down his hooked nose at our home, as if it displeased him, and his thin lips were curled into a small sneer.

I couldn't help but notice his clothing. Though he was dressed grandly, his clothes were worn and old; his coat had a small tear on the elbow, his waistcoat was dusty and his trousers had definately seen better days.

Still, he had the air of an upperclass man and, unlike Bamford, carried his stature convincingly.

I waited until Dad had led our guest into the kitchen before walking downstairs, reluctantly joining my family.

" . . . wife, Jennifer, and our oldest daughter Emma. And this is Ricky, our son." Dad turned as I walked into the kitchen, extending his hand and gesturing for me to walk forwards. "And this is our baby, Lucy."

I resented being called the baby, but said nothing as I joined Dad's side and looked up at our guest curiously. He regarded me coolly.

"Lucy, this is Nathaniel Turpin. He's a well known Judge at the court I work for."

I held my hand out as I forced myself to smile at this respected man.

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

Turpin's lips tilted into a smirk as he took my hand, shaking it.

"The pleasure is all mine."

I stared at him.

I snatched my hand out of his grip, stumbling backwards as I continued to stare up at him. He looked confused. He was feigning confusion, I was sure of it.

"It was you."

"Lucy?" I heard Dad say, but barely noticed as I continued to back away from Turpin.

"You were the one who attacked me!" I accused, pointing at him. I recognized his voice! How could I not?

"Lucy, don't be ridiculous." Dad put a hand on my shoulder, but I shook him off immediately, glaring at Turpin.

"I'm _not,_" I cried desperately. "He's the one who attacked me! I know he was!"

"Come on, Lucy," Ricky said gently, taking hold of my arms and dragging me out of the room. I struggled, but my brother was stronger than I remembered.

"I'm so sorry," Mum was saying as Ricky took me away from the kitchen. "She's been through a traumatic experience."

Ricky took me into the hallway, where he finally released my arms. He blocked my way back to the kitchen. I knew that if we resorted to physical combat, he would win. We used to play wrestle as kids, and I only won when he was tired.

"What the hell, Lucy?" he hissed furiously.

"That man attacked me," I snapped back.

"Lucy, he's a Judge. He's a good man. Why would he attack a silly teenage girl?"

I stared at Ricky, hurt by his comment.

"You don't believe me?"

"Of course I don't!"

Blinking away the tears that sprung to my eyes, I took my coat off the hook and pulled it on. My key was in the pocket.

"Where are you going?" Ricky demanded.

"To find someone who does believe me."

Before Ricky could say anything or try to stop me, I stormed out of the house. Desperate to get as far away as possible, I began running, ignoring the strange looks I recieved from members of the public.

It wasn't until I turned a corner that I realised where I had run to.

Fleet Street.

I hurried down the street until I reached the opposite corner, where the shop loomed over me in the evening darkness. I wasted no time in opening the gate and rushing up the wooden steps.

I hammered on the door impatiently, knocking so loudly that I apparently didn't hear Sweeney's permission for me to come in. He opened the door, glaring down at me furiously.

"What?" he demanded in a low voice, mild surprise at my appearance clouding his anger.

I stared up at him desperately, panting from the length of my run, before finally speaking.

"Please," I pleaded. "You have to help me."

* * *

Thank you CadyD and dionne dance for reviewing!


	7. Chapter 7

_**7)**_

Sweeney stared at me silently for a moment before stepping to the side.

"Get in," he hissed, and I quickly scurried into the shop. Sweeney took my arm and, still panting, I allowed him to lead me to the chair that was in the centre of the room. I sat down, putting my head between my legs to overcome the sudden faint feeling that arose.

"Here."

Looking up, I saw that Sweeney was holding out a glass of water. I warily took it, staring at it as I contemplated drinking it.

"I haven't poisoned it," he assured me with a bitter tone. I couldn't decide whether he was annoyed with my reluctance to drink or if he was attempting to be humourous.

Deciding that I did in fact need a drink, I took a tentative sip of water. It trickled down my dry throat, sending cool relief and help through me.

"Thank you," I said quietly, continuing to sip my water. Sweeney stood by the window, watching me, and when I finished the water, only moved to take the glass from me. I thanked him again.

"Why are you here?" he asked me, taking his place by the window once more. He seemed wary to approach me.

"I was attacked," I told him. Something in Sweeney changed; there was a brief flicker of something in his dark eyes. Fear? Worry? I couldn't tell.

"I fail to see how that concerns me," he said loftily, turning away. I stood up.

"My attacker threatened me regarding the murders," I said as if he hadn't spoken, choosing to ignore his comment. "And tonight, a work colleague of my father's came to dinner." I paused for Sweeney to respond, but he was silent. "They are the same person."

Sweeney looked at me scathingly over his shoulder, but remained silent. It was clear he wasn't interested.

"My attacker was Judge Nathaniel Turpin," I said, and Sweeney visibly stiffened at the mention of his name. "I recognized his voice and I have suspicions that he may be the murderer."

Sweeney slowly turned to face me, but his eyes were distant.

"Judge Turpin," he whispered brokenly.

"Do you know him?" I hesitantly asked, taking a small step back. It occured to me that Sweeney was dangerous. I'd seen him threaten grown men, scaring them away from me, and I knew that he had razors.

"_A pious vulture of the law,_" Sweeney sung quietly, under his breath. He seemed to have forgotten that I was standing in front of him. "_Who, with a gesture of his claw, removed the barber from his plate . . . _"

"Mr Todd?"

My voice seemed to have broken his trance like state, as his eyes snapped up to meet mine. He took a menacing step forwards.

"Judge Turpin is a monster," he hissed furiously. My eyes flicked down to his hand, widening when I saw the razor he held.

"You do know him, then?" I asked, forcing myself to keep eye contact with him.

"Yes."

I watched as Sweeney spun around and began to pace in front of the window, back and forth. He moved swiftly, like a caged lion. I prepared to run if I needed to.

"How do you know him?"

It was a risk I was taking, asking Sweeney about a man he so clearly hated, but I had to know.

"That . . . _man _sent me away," Sweeney spat as he continued pacing back and forth, never looking my way. "He sent me away and claimed my wife as his own."

Realisation dawned on me as I thought back to Sweeney's file.

_Sweeney's wife had been raped and commited suicide shortly afterwards. _

My eyes widened slightly as I stared at Sweeney in horror, my stomach churning uncomfortably.

"He raped her," I whispered. I felt sick. Turpin sent Sweeney away, leaving his wife alone with a baby, and took advantage of her.

Feeling faint, I stumbled backwards and fell into the chair. The room began to spin.

"Put your head down," Sweeney's voice ordered sternly.

"What?" I mumbled absent mindedly, blinking as I tried to clear my blurry vision.

"You cannot faint here, otherwise I will have to carry you home. I cannot explain that to your mother."

I leaned forwards, putting my head down, and shut my eyes as the uncomfortable feeling disappeared. It felt as if I was on an unsteady boat, like the ones found at parks. Ricky liked to take me on them, steering us around the lake. I never told him so, but they made me feel sick.

When I finally felt I had enough strength, I straightened up.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I'm not usually so weak."

I felt annoyed at myself as I said this; I'd come to ask Sweeney for help, but almost fainted twice and made him angry by questioning him on his past. Somehow, this wasn't going as I expected it to.

"Please," I said. "Will you help me?"

Sweeney regarded me silently, a hint of a sneer in his expression. I watched him, waiting and silently pleading.

"Why should I help you?"

"Because we're the same, you and I. We're both mad. We both want to rid ourselves of the guilt."

Sweeney stared at me, his mouth open as if to question what I had just said, but I spoke before he could.

"My family and I moved here because of me," I said. "I was in an accident." I paused before continuing. "My friends and I were in an asylum . . . and it collapsed."

"How did you survive?" Sweeney asked me quietly, as if he couldn't help himself.

"I was trapped in a pocket of air. My friends . . . died."

I closed my eyes as tears sprung to them, lowering my head, but Sweeney remained silent. I could feel his eyes on me.

"I still see them sometimes," I whispered. "They . . . talk to me."

"Ghosts," Sweeney said quietly, his tone understanding. I looked up at him.

"I came to you because you understand. You feel guilty for the deaths of the people you lost . . . you _know _Turpin. Please, will you help me?"

Sweeney stared at me silently, seemingly considering my plea for help. I sincerly hoped that he would. My family didn't believe me. If he didn't either, I'd be completely alone.

"Yes," he finally said.

Relief washed over me as I stood up, smiling at him.

"Thank you," I said. "Thank you so much."

* * *

It was late when I finally returned home, escorted by Sweeney. I asked him if he wanted to come in, but he refused. I didn't even have a chance to thank him before he turned and walked away.

The door opened before I could take my key out; Mum rushed out.

"Lucy!" she cried, enveloping me into a tight hug. I didn't return it, standing stiffly as she squeezed me.

Emma and Ricky were on the stairs when Mum took me inside, her arm around my shoulders. I looked at them briefly, but said nothing. Dad walked into the hallway.

"Finally," he said, shaking his head. "Lucy, we almost called the police."

"You should've done that earlier," I said bitterly.

"Because of your accusation, the dinner had to be cancelled," Dad snapped back. "Nathaniel felt very uncomfortable. The roast your mother made was completely wasted."

I felt guilty, but it was clouded by the anger I felt for my father. Glaring at him, I pulled away from Mum.

"Turpin attacked me," I said boldly, holding my head up. "Being a judge does not immediately make him an honourable person."

"Lucy . . . " Mum moaned behind me.

"Go to your room, Lucy," Dad ordered. "I don't want to see you for the rest of the evening."

I gladly followed his orders, storming upstairs and into my room. I made a point of slamming my door, such as Emma did when she had an argument with our parents, and then lay on my bed, waiting.

It didn't take long for Ricky to knock.

"Come in."

Holding a plate, Ricky walked in and, shutting the door behind him, sat down on my bed.

"I brought food," he said, holding the plate out as a peace offering. I smiled gratefully, picking up the sandwich he'd made me.

"Thank you."

"Where did you go, Lucy?" he asked me as I took a big bite. I waited until I'd swallowed to answer him.

"It doesn't matter."

"But, Lucy - "

"If you've come here to question me, I'd rather just be left alone," I snapped. Mumbling an apology, Ricky got up and left my room.

Guilt washed over me, putting me off my food, so I got up from my bed and put the plate outside my door. Someone would take it downstairs.

I lay on my back, staring up at my bedroom ceiling. I must've fallen asleep at some point.

I had nightmares all night.

* * *

"Is this your wife?" I asked, picking up a photo frame. The black and white photo was of a beautiful young woman. She was beaming, as if she was the happiest person alive.

"Yes," Sweeney answered me quietly. I smiled.

"She was beautiful." I looked over my shoulder. "What was her name?"

Sweeney was silent for a long time, and I briefly wondered if he had heard my question. I was considering asking him again when he finally spoke.

"Her name was Lucy."

His reaction to my name and presence in his shop suddenly became a lot clearer, and an uncomfortable silence fell over us. I looked away from Sweeney, putting the frame down.

"Like me." I forced myself to speak in a bright tone, grinning at him. Sweeney's lips twitched slightly.

"Yes."

It was the day after he'd agreed to help me. The atmosphere at my home was too uncomfortable and awkward to bear, so I made the excuse of needing to go into town to leave.

I found myself enjoying Sweeney's company, and he didn't object to my presence in his shop. I had spent most of the day reading while he paced, neither of us speaking, but it was a comfortable arrangement.

When my book was finished and I was left with nothing do, I took it upon myself to explore his shop.

"What's in here?"

I came across a simple wooden box on his desk and though I had my suspicions of the contents, I undid the latch and opened the lid anyway.

Seven razors were lined together, nestled in a bed of velvet, shining in the dim light of the room. I could feel Sweeney's eyes on me, watching me carefully as I tilted the box this way and that, admiring the razors.

I longed to pick one up, hold it in my hand, but I didn't think that Sweeney would take too kindly to me doing so. Still, I looked up at him.

"May I?" I asked quietly.

Striding forwards, Sweeney took the box from me. I watched him as he ran the tips of his fingers along the handles. His touch lingered on the last one, which he slowly lifted from the box.

He extended his hand and it took me a moment to realise that he was offering me the razor.

My hand shook as I took it from him, keeping the blade tucked in, and admired the detail in the handle.

"It's beautiful," I said quietly, handing it back to him. The most sincere grin I'd seen appeared on Sweeney's face as he held the razor up, taking the blade out.

"Yes," he agreed. "It is."

Lifting another razor, Sweeney softly sung under his breath.

"_These are my friends . . . see how they glisten. See this one shine, how he smiles in the light . . . _"

* * *

Thank you dionne dance and CadyD for reviewing!


	8. Chapter 8

_**8)**_

I lay on my stomach, my bare feet in the air behind me while various pieces of paper were spread out in front of me. It was late at night, the only time it was truly safe for me to conduct my investigation.

So far, I hadn't made much progress.

It was frustrating, to say the least.

Reaching out, I picked up the piece of paper that was closest to me; the notes on the first murder. Stephanie Brown was the oldest of three children, had blonde hair and had a reputation of poor choices in men.

She was murdered following a date arranged with a boy she met on the internet. Before her murder, she was raped.

I shuddered at that last piece of information, remembering what Sweeney had told me about his wife. Putting the paper down, I picked up the next piece; the notes of Marie Rice's murder.

She had a two year old son and was a natural blonde. She left the a bar early to meet a client, hinting at her illegal occupation of prostitution. She engaged in sexual intercourse before her murder.

A third piece of paper listed everything I knew about Judge Turpin, but I refused to look over it at this point in time. Just the thought of that unsavoury character sent a shiver down my spine.

Sighing, I gathered the papers and hid them in the large Atlas Dad brought for me on my sixth birthday, hoping it would interest me. It was old and gathering dust on my shelf, giving no one reason to open it.

I lay back on my bed, hugging a pillow, and frowned.

Turpin was the murderer, I was certain of it, and Sweeney believed me. But he was the only person.

I had no proof, and without proof, people weren't going to believe me. I knew that my parents would try to provide a logical explanation for my outburst regarding Turpin; Mum would probably blame it on my PTSD.

I was going to prove that Turpin was the murderer, or at least that he attacked me.

I just didn't know how yet.

* * *

"Lucy," a voice said softly.

I frowned sleepily, rolling onto my side and curling up.

"Lucy," the voice repeated, a gentle hand now caressing my cheek. I smiled, leaning into the touch as I struggled to fall asleep once more.

"I don't want to get up," I mumbled.

"Come on, babe, you have to."

My eyes snapped open as I registered whose voice it was, and sure enough, Tyler was standing over me. As my eyes met his, a wide grin spread across his face.

"Wake up, Lucy, it's going to be a busy day."

I screamed loudly, rolling away from Tyler and landing on the floor in a mess, tangled in my duvet. I didn't have time to panic before the door was thrown open and Mum rushed to my side.

"Lucy, are you alright, love?" she asked, helping me sit up. Her warm hands pressed against my cheeks, pushing my hair back.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I lied shakily, pulling away from her.

"But you screamed."

"I had a nightmare. I'm fine."

Mum continued to stare at me, worry clear in her eyes, so I untangled myself and stood up, throwing the duvet back on my bed.

"Do you want some breakfast?" Mum asked, also standing up. "I have a late appointment, so I can make you something."

"Yes, thank you," I said wearily, knowing it best to accept Mum's offers rather than refuse them. Smiling at me, Mum left my bedroom.

I stared at the spot that Tyler had just been standing for a minute before finally shaking my head, deciding that it was my state of sleepiness making me hallucinate.

I got dressed before I went downstairs. I hadn't made a plan, but I was debating on whether or not I should visit Sweeney. Even if we didn't discuss the murders or Turpin, I enjoyed his company.

A newspaper was on the kitchen table, the headline as clear as day. I picked it up before Mum could snatch it away.

There had been a third murder.

My hands shook as I folded the paper, aware of Mum's eyes on me.

"I'm going out," I announced.

"But I thought you . . . " Mum's voice trailed away as I turned around and left the kitchen, striding upstairs. I collected my notes from their hiding spot and put them away in a bag along with the newspaper.

I didn't say goodbye to Mum when I left, but not for any other reason than I was determined to get to Fleet Street as soon as possible.

It couldn't have been mere coincidence, however, that as I strode through the busy streets of London, I just happened to bump into Julian Bamford once more. I walked determindedly, barely noticing the people that surrounded me, and so literally walked straight into him.

"Sorry," I quickly said, and then realised who it was I'd walked into. "Oh, it's you."

Bamford smirked. "It is a pleasure to see you once more, Miss Moon. How are you?"

"Fine." I shifted from one foot to the other, agitated. I was wasting valuable time I could be spending with Sweeney, solving the murders.

"I heard that you kicked up quite a fuss at Judge Turpin's presence in your home," Bamford said casually. Almost too casually. I glared at him.

"How do you know about that?" I asked suspiciously, my eyes narrowing.

"The Judge and I are on speaking terms," Bamford said with a wave of his hand. "You might say we were friends of a sort."

"Right, well, I'd better go," I said rudely, walking around him. "I've got somewhere to be."

I could feel his eyes on me as I walked away, but didn't look over my shoulder. Instead, I carried on in my striding, having determined a good pace. I slowed down only when I turned the corner onto Fleet Street, relief washing over me.

I knocked lightly on Sweeney's door, listening carefully for his permission to enter. I walked in immediately when it came.

"There's been another murder," I said, dropping my bag on the trunk and opening it.

Sweeney slowly turned around, a hint of amusment lingering in his eyes; he clearly found my blunt attitude a source of humour.

"Anna Farrell," I said, unfolding the newspaper and scanning it for vital information. "Blonde, twenty and a prostitute. She engaged in sexual intercourse - " A blush rose to my cheeks as I said this. " - before her murder."

Anna Farrell's ring was also missing when her body was found in the same area as the first two girls. She'd been strangled to death.

"Anthing else?" Sweeney asked.

I shook my head. "Nothing important."

Sighing, I sat down on the trunk, hugging my bag to my chest. My mind wandered back to this morning's events, when I saw Tyler standing over my bed.

"Do you ever see them?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"Who?"

"Your wife, daughter . . . anyone, really."

Sweeney's expression was unfathomable as he answered me.

"In these familiar streets, I feel shadows everywhere," he said in a broken whisper, barely looking at me.

"Shadows?" I repeated, and his lips twitched slightly. Almost as if he was smiling at a distant memory.

"Ghosts."

"I see them too," I said softly, a wave of understand rolling over me. Sweeney looked at me.

Looking away, I became aware of the silence that now loomed over us. I much preferred silence when I was on my own. With company, it had a nasty habit of turning awkward and thus made everyone feel uncomfortable.

Taking the newspaper out of my bag, I began making notes in the small notepad that was in my bag.

As I did so, Sweeney began to pace back and forth. A feeling emerged in me, something I couldn't quite place, and it only grew as I continued to write notes. It became very distracting.

Frowning, I looked over my other notes.

Sudden realisation dawned on me, and in my excitement, I dropped the papers and my notebook.

Jumping up, I crossed the room and picked up the photos of Lucy, Sweeney's wife. Though they were black and white, I had a suspicious feeling about them.

"What colour was Lucy's hair?" I asked, turning around to look at Sweeney. He watched me, anxiety clear in his eyes as I handled the precious photos.

When he didn't respond, I carefully put the photo frame down and faced him once more.

"What colour was Lucy's hair?" I repeated.

"She had yellow hair."

I translated this to Lucy being blonde - again, Sweeney's first reaction to me made much more sense - and grinned despite myself.

Turning away so Sweeney wouldn't see and misinterpret my grin, I picked up the newspaper and my notes.

Stephanie Brown was blonde and had loose morals regarding relationships.

Marie Rice was blonde and a prostitute.

Anna Farrell was blonde and also a prostitute.

"They're all blonde," I whispered, looking up at Sweeney. "They're all _blonde._"

Sweeney watched me as I began to pace back and forth, thoughts clouding my mind.

"All three victims were blonde," I said. "And all three of them had . . . erm, loose morals." I spun around to face Sweeney. "What was Lucy like?"

"Beautiful," he said. "And virtuous."

I sat down on the trunk, trying to gather my scattered thoughts.

"Turpin is murdering girls that look like Lucy." I looked at Sweeney. "Because he could never truly have her."

Sweeney's silence was my confirmation; jumping up, I collected my papers and stuffed them into my bag.

"Where are you going?" Sweeney asked me.

"To see my Dad." I swung my bag over my shoulder. "Come on."

* * *

The building in which my father worked was large and old fashioned, a large staircase leading up to the wooden double doors that were propped open.

I strode up the steps, Sweeney close behind me. He'd been initially reluctant to accompany me, but I insisted.

The building was bustling with activity, and if I hadn't been so determined to find Dad, I probably would've been interested. Instead, I hesitated for a moment, lost.

"Where do we go?" I asked quietly, talking to myself rather than Sweeney, who offered no answer nor guidance.

"Miss Moon! We meet once more, I see."

I groaned at the sound of Bamford's voice, and became quite certain that the man was following me. How else would we continuously bump into each other like this?

Behind me, Sweeney visibly stiffened as Bamford approached us. I didn't miss the way his hand jerked towards his pocket, in which I knew he'd hidden one of his precious razors.

"And why, may I ask, is a young girl such as yourself here?"

"I'm looking for my father. Could you possibly direct me to his office?" I requested politely.

Bamford frowned. "Why do you want to see him?"

"I have something important to tell him."

"Well, he's busy right now. Perhaps I can pass on a message?"

"No, I have to see him."

Bamford opened his mouth to protest, but Sweeney took a step forwards and spoke before he could.

"I suggest you direct her to her father's office," he said in a dangerously low voice that I knew all too well.

"I do hope you're not threatening me, Mr Todd," Bamford said. "Or I will have no choice but to have you escorted from the building."

"He isn't threatening you," I said. "But I do believe it's my right to see my father as and when I want to."

"Lucy?"

A wide grin spread across my face when I saw Dad walking towards us, carrying a file in one hand and a coffee in the other. He frowned at me.

"Why are you here?" he demanded, his eyes flicking up to Sweeney. "And who are you?"

"Dad, I have something to tell you," I said. "Can we go to your office or something?"

"Why? Does your mother know you're here?"

"Is something wrong, Mr Moon?"

My heart missed a beat at the sound of yet another familiar voice, one far more sinister than Bamford's.

Judge Turpin joined our odd group in the centre of the room, surveying us all with a sneer and raised eyebrow. I struggled to meet his eyes, staring at the floor instead.

"No, I was just telling my daughter to go home."

Looking up, I saw that Turpin was not looking at me, but at Sweeney. Sweeney stared back, his expression blank.

"Mr Todd," Turpin said slowly. "It isn't often we see you away from that shop of yours."

Sweeney glared at him, and I could feel the hatred radiating off him.

"Dad," I said urgently, looking at my father. "Please. I need to talk to you."

For a moment, I saw the warm affection in my Dad's eyes that I used to see when I was a child. For a moment, I was hopeful that he'd listen to me.

But the moment ended when he spoke.

"Go home, Lucy," he said sternly. "Now."

All my hope came crashing down as my own father turned his back on me and walked away.

* * *

Thank you dionne dance for reviewing!


	9. Chapter 9

_**9)**_

I stared at my father as he walked away, my mouth open but my mouth too dry to verbalise the words I wanted to scream at him. Tears welled in my eyes, and I didn't try to stop them escaping. One rolled down my cheek.

"Dad," I whispered pathetically.

"I believe it would be wise to follow your father's wishes, Miss Moon," Turpin said dryly, reaching out and placing his hand on my shoulder.

The reaction was immediate; Sweeney jerked forwards as I stepped backwards, pulling myself away from Turpin.

"Don't touch her," Sweeney said in a low voice, a hint of a threat lingering in the air after he spoke. Turpin's lips curled slightly as his eyes flickered between the two of us, amusement clouding them.

"How interesting," he said quietly, so no one else would hear. "Have you found your capability of having emotions, Mr Todd?"

He was clearly mocking Sweeney, and I knew that the consequences were not going to be good. As Sweeney jerked forwards again, I stepped in between the two men. I wasn't large or strong, but I was an effective barrier. Sweeney wouldn't hurt me.

"You are a despicable man," I said to Turpin, forcing myself to look him straight in the eye as I spoke. "And I will prove that you're guilty."

Turpin's lips curled again, but before he could respond, I turned my back on him and looked up at Sweeney.

"Lets go," I said softly, silently pleading with him not to make a scene in front of everyone. Glaring at Turpin, Sweeney somewhat reluctantly turned his back on the Judge. He followed me outside, close to me, as if he was protecting me. I don't know why, but I felt rather grateful that he'd accompanied me.

The air was cool against my now sweaty skin, and I lingered at the top of the stairs for a moment to cool down. Sweeney put a hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him.

Silent, he walked down the stairs and I followed.

* * *

"Thank you."

Sweeney stopped pacing, slowly turning to face me. "What?" he asked.

"Thank you," I repeated. "For coming with me. I dread to think what would've happened had you not."

Somehow, Turpin didn't strike me as the sort of man to act on his impulses, one of which I knew was to silence me. The thought made me want to curl up in a ball and never wake up again, but I continued to think.

Turpin was clever. He was condescending and arrogant and took great pleasure in making me look like a fool, but he was very clever.

And that's what scared me the most.

I liked to think of myself as clever. I certainly wasn't stupid, my grades proved that, but Turpin definately left me feeling puzzled.

"He won't hurt you," Sweeney said, as if he'd been reading my thoughts. I looked up at him. "Not while I'm around," he added quietly, turning away.

I felt mildly reassured, but only mildly. Sweeney could only be there for me for so long.

"I don't want to go home," I said suddenly, bringing my legs up to my chest and hugging them. I was sitting on the trunk, which I'd adopted as my permanent spot while in the shop, with my back against the wall.

"I can't let you stay here."

I grinned despite myself, trying hard not to laugh as I briefly imagined having a sleepover with Sweeney Todd. Somehow, he didn't quite strike me as the sort of person who would enjoy watching rom-coms in his pyjamas and sharing secrets in the dead of night while eating sugar filled snacks.

The idea of Sweeney doing those things made me laugh, and the look of confusion on his face made me laugh even harder.

"Sorry," I said when I finally stopped laughing, struggling to catch my breath.

The laughter felt good. Laughing wasn't something I did often, not since the accident, but the moment I spent laughing made me feel as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and I felt a great deal calmer than I had before.

Crying had the same effect, I noted, but laughing was far more pleasant.

"You're a bloody wonder," Sweeney muttered under his breath, and I didn't know whether it was an insult or a compliment. I decided to take it as a compliment, grinning at him.

"Laughing is good," I told him. "You should laugh more often."

"I have nothing to laugh about."

"Happiness can be found in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on a light," I quoted Albus Dumbledore in my wisest tone, unsure if I had actually quoted it correctly. It didn't matter, though, because my point was put across and Sweeney had probably never read the Harry Potter series nor seen the films.

Sweeney shot me a look that was scathing, clearly unimpressed by my words of wisdom, and continued to pace.

I frowned, watching him pace.

"Apparently having no friends can effect your health as smoking so many cigarettes in one day," I told him. Sweeney shot me another scathing look.

"I have no reason to care about friends," he said.

"You should, because it can have serious effects on your health."

"You said that."

I shrugged. "Don't you ever feel . . . lonely?"

Sweeney stopped, and though he tried to hide it, I saw the flash of vulnerability in his eyes. I instantly felt guilty for asking the question.

"Yes," he said, so quietly I wasn't sure whether or not he wanted me to hear him. From the way he turned away almost immediately, I presumed that he didn't want me to. Therefore, I pretended I didn't.

"I need to prove that Turpin is behind the murders," I said thoughtfully.

"And how do you intend on doing that?"

"I don't know."

Sweeney looked at me with a hint of pity, as if he was only going along my plans to keep me safe from Turpin. I sighed.

"Please don't humour me. It doesn't help," I muttered, standing up. I picked my bag up.

"Where are you going?"

I turned to look at Sweeney, who suddenly looked desperate for me to stay. Part of me wanted to stay, but another part was telling me that I had to leave. It was this part that insisted there was something I had to do, though I wasn't sure what.

"I'm sorry," I said. "But I have to do this."

I waited for Sweeney to try and stop me as I opened the door, but he didn't.

For some reason, it made me feel slightly sad.

I walked from Fleet Street to the posh estate I initially met Bamford in, and waited.

I wasn't sure as to how long I waited, but I sat on the bench and waited patiently, keeping a sharp eye out. When I finally saw them, I jumped up from my bench and darted behind a bush, peeking around the edge.

Bamford and Turpin were walking together, talking about something in too low a voice for me to hear. I watched.

Ascending a staircase, I watched as Turpin removed a key from his pocket and opened the front door. Bamford followed him in, shutting the door behind himself.

I took careful note of the house number, imprinting it onto my mind, before slowly emerging from my hiding place. I ran down the street and around the corner, taking me to the back gardens of the large houses.

I counted down to Turpin's house, lingering outside the back garden. When I saw him and Beadle in the window, I ducked down, the fence being my only protection. Thankfully, they didn't see me.

I remained by the fence for a long time, carefully making mental notes of everything I'd need to remember.

When a plan was finally formulated in my mind, I stood up from behind the fence and ran home.

* * *

"How dare you come to my place of work and _humiliate _me!" Dad snapped furiously, pacing in front of me. I watched him silently.

"Really, Lucy, I don't know what's got into you recently," Mum said, shaking her head. I narrowed my eyes at her. Of course she would take his side.

"And bringing that man with you!"

"What man?"

"That client of yours, Todd?"

"Sweeney Todd?" Mum rounded on me. "Lucy, I don't want you near that man!"

"Why not?"

"He's . . . mentally unstable. He could hurt you."

"No, he wouldn't," I said, shaking my head.

"You don't know him, Lucy."

"Yes, I do. Mum, he helped me - "

"You are not to go near him," Dad interupted. "And you are not to bring him into this mess you've created."

I stood up. "Turpin attacked me and he is behind the murders."

"Stop being ridiculous!" Dad shouted. "Lucy, this is your PTSD influencing your thoughts. Your mother and I are going to book you an appointment and - "

"It isn't my PTSD!" I yelled. "Stop trying to blame everything on that! I'm not crazy, I'm telling the truth!"

There was a long moment of silence in which neither of my parents looked at me. I waited, holding my breath.

"Go to your room, Lucy," Mum finally said quietly, still not looking at me.

I stared at them, unable to say anything. Finally, I let out a frustrated noise and flounced out of the room. Flinging the living room door open, I saw that Emma and Ricky were sitting on the stairs.

"Had a good listen, did you?" I snapped at them, storming past them.

In my room, I changed into a darker pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt, pulling on my black hoodie over it. Tying my hair back, I slipped into my plimsolls and picked up my bag.

I didn't say goodbye to anyone as I left, nor did I tell them I was leaving. Instead, I simply walked out into the dark street.

It didn't take me long to get to Turpin's house, which I thankfully remembered, and walk around the back. I threw my bag over the fence, into a bush, and waited for a tense minute, listening for any sign of disturbance.

When none came, I followed my bag over the fence. Picking the bag up, I darted across the garden towards the back door.

Testing it, I was both relieved and surprised to find it unlocked.

Taking in a deep breath, I slipped inside the Turpin manor.

I was going to prove that Turpin was behind the murders, one way or another.

* * *

Thank you CadyD and dionne dance for reviewing!


	10. Chapter 10

_**10)**_

I stood in the centre of the room for a moment, taking in my surroundings. As I expected, Turpin's taste in furniture was ostentatious and classical; he had a lot of antiques. Running my finger along one of his vases, it came away dusty. I grimaced.

I crept across the room and slowly opened the door, peering out. I looked down both ends of the corridor and when I saw no one, walked out of the room.

Carefully shutting the door, I looked both ways again before turning to my left and walking.

I stuck close the walls, trying to stay in the shadows. Each time I came to a corner, I peeked around it and checked both ways several times before continuing in my journey.

I felt ridiculous, as if I were in some sort of spy movie, and I briefly wondered what Ricky would say if he could see me now.

I had no idea what I was looking for. Only that I was looking for something.

As I walked, I couldn't help but notice that vulgar images and sculptures of sexual intercourse were seen as decorations in the home. This rose my levels of suspicion; the murder victims either engaged in sexual intercourse or were raped before their death.

The low rumble of a voice made me freeze.

" . . . yes, Lucy . . . beautiful . . . a nuisance . . . Mr Todd . . . "

From the brief snatches of conversation I heard, I instantly recognized Turpin's voice. A pig-like snort told me that Bamford was also in the room.

Were they discussing me?

I shuffled closer to the door, as close as I dared, and continued to listen to the conversation.

" . . . do something about her, my lord?" Bamford suggested in his slimy voice. Blind panic coursed through me, but I suppressed it.

"No, no," Turpin said dismissively. "She is not a trouble . . . yet."

"How can you be so sure? If you don't mind me asking."

"You've seen how dismissive her father was of the her . . . theories." Turpin's voice was smug as he said this, and I scowled. "She is alone in her belief that I am the murderer."

Bamford snorted again. "Ridiculous girl."

"She's very intelligent, especially for a teenager," Turpin said thoughtfully, almost admirably. I frowned. "How else would she become allies with Todd?"

"He is a sucker for a pretty face, my lord."

"Yes, well, he is only human." Turpin paused. "Aren't we all?"

The pair laughed, as if a private joke had just been shared. I shuddered at the implications, my stomach clenching uncomfortably.

Shuffling forwards, I saw that the door was slightly ajar. I knew that if I were to pass it, there was the risk of being spotted by Turpin or Bamford.

I scowled, realising I had no choice but to turn around and go the opposite way.

So that's what I did. Trying to push Turpin and Bamford's conversation out of my mind, I snuck down the corridor in the opposite way.

Turning a corner, I stopped by the first door I came to. It was open, allowing me to peek inside.

My eyes widened when I saw the books.

I was a sucker for books. They were my weakness. I loved to read. I read anything and everything. More than once, Claire moaned at me for wanting to read rather than go out with her.

"Lucy," a voice whispered, making me jump. Tearing my eyes away from the books, I looked up and saw Claire standing across from me.

"Claire?" I stared at her.

"Don't do it," she insisted.

For a moment, I almost listened to her. I almost turned around and left the Turpin mansion.

Then I realised that Claire was just a figment of my imagination, formed only through my PTSD. Shaking my head, I pushed the door open and walked into the library.

Large bookshelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling dominated two walls, leather armchairs surrounding a table. I shut the door behind me and walked forwards, picking up the first book I came across.

I opened it and almost dropped it.

The first page depicted sketches of various sexual positions and activities.

I turned the page, but that was no better. Flicking the pages, I saw that the sketches got only more graphic and more vulgar. I noticed that though the man seemed to be experiencing intense pleasure, the women looked as if they were in pain.

Deciding I'd seen enough, I put the book back on the shelf and reached for another.

I froze when I heard footsteps.

Panic rushed through me as the footsteps got closer, and I spun around wildly, looking for a hiding spot.

Seeing the desk, which was facing the door, I rushed across the room and ducked underneath. I pressed my back against the wood, curling my legs up to my chest and hugging them close.

I did this just in time, as the door opened.

I could see Beadle's reflection in the window as he walked into the room, stopping by the table. Biting my lip to stop myself from screaming, I watched him pick up a glass bottle and pour two glasses of the drink inside.

My whole body was trembling as Beadle then approached the desk. I barely breathed, hearing the papers on it shuffle. Was he looking for something?

Then there were footsteps, getting quieter as they faded away, followed by the soft click of the door shutting.

I let out a shaky breath, I uncurled my legs and let my head gently hit the wood behind it.

I shut my eyes.

A few tears rolled down my cheeks as the fear slowly ebbed away. Wiping them away, I slowly crawled out from underneath the desk.

Standing up, I quickly crossed the room and opened the door. I didn't bother check as I darted out and up the stairs.

The upstairs was very much like the downstairs; dusty and depicting sexual intercourse as something to be admired. I ignored his less than savoury decorations as I peeked into each room.

"Aha," I said softly, opening one door that revealed what I presumed to be his bedroom.

I didn't want to go into Turpin's bedroom, but I knew that I had to.

Taking in a deep breath, I forced myself to step inside.

I shut the door behind me and took a quick look. It was very minimalistic, with a bed and a bedside table next to it. There was a wardrobe and chest of drawers and a mirror. There weren't any pictures or photos or books. Nothing that told me anything about him.

I shook my head; I was here to prove that Turpin was the muderer, not judge his bedroom.

Striding forwards, I knelt by the bedside table, which had drawers, and opened the first drawer.

Papers, and lots of them.

I took a handful out and shuffled through them, but saw nothing that indicated Turpin was behind the murders. Scowling, I put them back and shut the drawer.

Opening the second, I saw several books and a diary. Taking out the diary, I flicked through it; it was empty.

The third drawer held nothing that helped me, so I got up and went around the over side of the bed. That way, I didn't have my back to the door.

I lay on my stomach and flattened myself out, peering underneath the bed. There was a shoebox underneath.

Sitting up, I reached under the bed and took out the shoebox. It was covered in dust.

I lifted the lid, putting it on the ground next to me, and gasped.

Photos.

There were so many photos.

Taking out a handful, I shuffled through them. There was a beautiful woman in nearly every one, a woman I recognized to be Sweeney's wife, Lucy.

The most disturbing thing was that she didn't seem aware her photo was being taken. They were like candid shots, but from afar.

Like he was following her.

I continued to shuffle through the photos, becoming increasingly disturbed. I almost dropped the photos when I came to the last one.

It was of Lucy, but she was looking directly at the camera. Her mouth was open, as if she was going to speak or shout, and her brow was creased; her eyebrows were pulling together and her eyes were narrowed slightly. It was like she'd spotted whoever was taking photos.

"Poor, poor Lucy," I said softly, thinking of her fate. Shaking my head, I put the photos back into the box.

I put the lid on the shoebox and pushed it back under the bed. Though the photos were incredibly disturbing, they didn't prove that Turpin was the murderer.

Standing up, I looked around.

My eyes rested on the chest of drawers.

Crossing the room, I opened the first drawer of three. It contained row after row of socks, which I reluctantly pawed through. If Turpin had any organisational method, I completely messed it up.

When I found nothing, I resorted to looking in the socks, unrolling them and stuffing my hand in them just in case he was hiding something in them.

Throwing the sock down, I shut the drawer and moved onto the second.

My stomach clenched; it was his underwear.

I knew that the underwear wasn't dirty, but it still felt disgusting digging through it. I tried not to look as I pushed it to the side, searching for something that was incriminate Turpin.

Finding nothing, I shut the drawer and moved onto the third. Again, I found nothing.

I let out a huff of frustration, looking around the room again. My eyes finally rested on the wardrobe.

I jumped up, having knelt on the ground to search through the final drawer, and practically ran to the wardrobe. Flinging the doors open, the first thing I saw were his clothes hanging up.

Looking down, I saw the boxes.

I let out a small cry of joy, sure I'd found something that would prove me right. Picking up the first, my grin fell when I saw the shoes.

The next three boxes were rather similar in that retrospect, holding shoes rather than evidence.

Then I found the final box.

It was lighter than the previous four, the contents sliding inside as I picked it up. Putting it down on the floor, I took off the lid.

My mouth fell open.

There were two rings and a necklace.

The three pieces of jewellery missing when the murdered girls were found.

I stared at the jewellery, unable to comprehend what I had just found.

This was it.

I'd proved that Turpin was the murderer!

I wanted to laugh with pure joy, but I supressed it to a wide grin. Now I just had to decide what to do.

To try and take the jewellery would be silly; Turpin would know it was me. I had no real choice than to leave an anonymous tip-off to the police. That way, Turpin wouldn't hurt me.

Still grinning widely, I put the lid back on the box.I put the box back in the wardrobe where I found it and shut the wardrobe doors.

I couldn't believe it.

I found proof. I could prove that it was Turpin who attacked me and murdered the girls.

Crossing the room, I opened the bedroom door and walked out.

Straight into Turpin.

I froze, staring up at him with pure fear. His eyes shining, Turpin stood over me like a predator cornering its prey. His lips curled into a triumphant smirk.

"Well well well," he said softly. "What have we here?"

* * *

Thank you dionne dance and Raynie for reviewing!


	11. Chapter 11

_**11)**_

I couldn't move.

I was rooted to the spot with pure fear, staring up at Turpin as he smirked at me. A thousand scenarios played in my mind, all of which ended up badly for me.

What was going to happen to me?

If Turpin was the murderer - and all evidence suggested that he was - then he'd have no qualms or problems over murdering me. He could easily kill me with his bare hands, and no one would have any idea. They'd think I was murdered by the elusive murderer and Turpin would get away with it.

A moment of madness took over me.

I sprinted forwards, towards Turpin, and tried to dart around him. He was surprisingly quick.

Grabbing my arms, Turpin spun me around and slammed me against the wall of his bedroom, pinning me against his. One hand stayed on my arm while the other curled around my neck, squeezing.

"Now," he said slowly. "What are you doing in my house?"

It was a rhetorical question; I was choking and gasping for breath. He held me so tightly that my feet were actually lifted off the ground.

"I do hope you realise that breaking and entering is a very serious offense, Miss Moon," he continued.

"Not as serious," I managed to choke out. "As murder."

With a snarl, his hand on my throat tightened. I clawed at his hand, barely able to breath. Black spots began to invade my vision.

Was I going to die?

As morbid a subject it was, I hoped that I would die in peace, free from the guilt I felt of surviving the accident when my friends didn't. But fate intervened, and I was going to die at the hands of a madman.

Something in Turpin's eyes changed, and he suddenly let go of me.

Gasping for breath, I fell to my knees. I struggled to breathe, massaging my throat, and glared at Turpin's boots as he stood in front of me.

The bastard was enjoying this, seeing me in pain. If he was going to kill me, then he was going to kill me slowly.

"Tell me," he said as I slowly sat up, too sore to stand up. "What do you think of my house?"

"Ostentatious," I said. "A brandish display of when a man has more money than sense."

Above me, Turpin smirked.

"You say that with such conviction, Miss Moon."

"I say it because it's true."

Laughing softly, Turpin looked in the direction of the doorway. I followed his gaze, my heart missing a beat when I saw Bamford.

"Bamford," Turpin said. "We have a guest."

"So I see, my lord." Bamford smirked down at me in an unpleasant manner. I glared at him.

"Perhaps we should show her some hospitality. She has, after all, travelled a long way to join us."

"Certainly, sir."

I tried to scramble away from Bamford, but he grabbed the scruff of my collar and hauled me to my feet. He was surprisingly strong for a man of his short stature.

His hand curling around my arm, Bamford dragged me out of the room and down the hallway. Turpin followed us down the familiar corridor I walked down not long ago; we were going to the library.

This time, I didn't admire the books or furniture. Bamford hauled me forwards and shoved me into one of the armchairs.

"Would you care for a drink, Miss Moon?" Turpin asked me, shutting the door and strolling in.

"No," I snapped back.

"Come now, Miss Moon, there is no need for such hostility."

"What are you going to do with me?"

Turpin raised an eyebrow, pausing in his action of pouring himself a drink.

"What makes you think that I am going to do anything?"

"You're the murderer." I started to rise, but Bamford pushed me back down into the seat. "I know you are."

"You have no proof."

"I saw the jewellery." I smirked. "Your trophies."

Smiling, Turpin lifted his glass and took a long drink from it. He never took his eyes from me and I gave him the same curtesy.

"Tell me, Miss Moon, how do you expect to convince everyone that I am the murderer?"

"They won't need convincing when I show them the jewellery."

Turpin looked over my shoulder at Bamford, the two of them sharing a smirk that sent a shiver down my spine.

What were they planning?

"Be reasonable, Miss Moon. I am a respected member of society, a judge. You are a teenager." Turpin smirked. "A young, volatile child that has suffered a traumatic accident. Who are they more likely to believe?"

"How do you know about the accident?" I asked quietly, frowning.

"Your father is only human. He needed someone to listen to his distress regarding the move . . . it just so happened that I was the one to offer a listening ear."

"You're a monster," I whispered.

"How so, Miss Moon?"

"I know what you did to Lucy Barker," I said. "And I know it's because of your obsession with her that you're murdering all these other girls."

Turpin looked interested as he strolled forwards, gesturing for me to continue.

"Lucy was a virtuous woman who loved her husband more than anything, and what you did to her destroyed her." I grew increasingly brave as I spoke. "The one thing you wanted more than anything escaped your grasp and you hate her for it."

Turpin walked past me with slow, deliberate steps.

"You're murdering the girls that look so much like her but have a history of low morals because you just can't understand how this one woman escaped you. This is you consolation prize, your cheap little thrill."

Behind me, Turpin laughed.

"You have certainly given this much thought, Miss Moon."

"And you underestimated me."

Suddenly, Turpin was in front of me. His hands were either side of the chair I was in, trapping me, and he leaned in so close that I could feel his breath on my face.

"Indeed I have," he murmured thoughtfully, his eyes carefully studying my face. His hand reached out and played with a strand of my hair. "It would seem you are far smarter than I initially thought."

He tucked the strand of hair behind my ear, his hand lingering for moment, before frowning.

"What are you going to do with me?" I repeated, shrinking back and away from his touch.

"I could do anything . . . " Turpin's lips tilted into a smirk. "I could lock you away from the rest of the world and leave you in the darkness until it sends you mad. I can leave you there for the rest of your days, leaving you to wonder when your last day will be. I could kill you slowly, intimately, in every way that plagues your nightmares."

Turpin leaned further in, despite me shrinking away, and his lips brushed against my ear as he whispered.

"I could make you rue the day that you were born."

I shuddered, looking away to hide the tears of fear that sprung to my eyes. Turpin smirked and pulled away.

Another moment of madness took over me; my hand shot out to strike Turpin across the face. He caught my hand, however, and held it tightly. I cried out in pain.

"You fight better with your words, Miss Moon," he hissed, releasing my hand. "Remember that."

I cradled my hand against my chest, looking down at the floor as the tears threatened to escape.

I was scared. I was _petrified_ of Turpin; I knew what he could do me.

"Are you quite certain that you don't want that drink, Miss Moon?"

I ignored Turpin. He sat down in one of the chairs, contently sipping his drink, and watched me while I determinedly avoided his gaze.

I don't know how long we sat there in the library together in silence, but when there was a loud knock at the door, I almost jumped out of my skin. I looked up at Turpin reluctantly.

Smirking, Turpin waved his hand at Bamford, never taking his eyes off me.

"Answer the door," he ordered.

I looked away again as Bamford left the library, wondering who would be visiting Turpin at this time of night.

The library door opened, and Bamford stood up.

"Mr Moon," he greeted my father pleasantly. I jumped up.

"Dad!"

Rather than embrace me with open arms and tell me that everything was ok, as I wanted him to, Dad looked at me with such fury that I was glad looks could not, in fact, kill.

"I am so sorry, Nathaniel," Dad said. "My wife and I had no idea that she snuck out."

"No matters," Turpin said. "There has been no harm done."

I opened my mouth to protest - the man _attacked _me, _threatened _me and scared me to death - but Dad gave me such a furious look that I shut it again.

"Even so, I can't apologise enough for my daughter's behaviour. If you want to inform the police then - "

"There is no need for that," Turpin interupted with a wave of his hand. "I do not plan on pressing charges."

"If you're sure . . . "

"Of course. Your daughter is dealing with the loss of her friends. It is understandable she acts out like this."

I glared at Turpin.

How _dare _he stand there and pretend to_ understand_ me!

I wanted to scream and shout and make everyone see Turpin for what he truly was, but I couldn't. I was in enough trouble as it was, and I knew my father wouldn't take kindly to me shouting at Turpin.

His eyes meeting mine, I was furious to see the triumphant gleam in Turpin's eyes.

This was all a game to him, and I was the unfortunate opposing player.

"Come on, Lucy," Dad said, extending a hand. I walked past Turpin, to Dad, and let my father pull me out of the room.

If Turpin wanted to play a game, then a game I would give him.

* * *

Turpin's speech about what he could do to Lucy was very much inspired by Loki's speech to Natasha in The Avengers . . . I can't help it, it's my new obsession!

Anyway, thank you CadyD and my two anonymous reviewers for reviewing!


	12. Chapter 12

_**12)**_

My heart raced furiously as my eyes slowly opened, pain clinging to me with sharp claws. I tried to move, but the pain stopped me; I gasped.

Tears sprung to my eyes. Where was I?

Dust lingered in the air, flecks of white and grey amongst the darkness that surrounded me. I watched one piece as it floated, suddenly captivated by the graceful movements. It reminded me of a ballet dancer.

Footsteps caught my attention. I tried to push myself up again, but the pain prevailed.

Groaning, I rolled my head to the side and watched with distorted vision as a figure approached me.

The figure stopped, a foot nudging my leg.

I couldn't help it; I screamed.

I screamed until my throat was dry and my voice was hoarse, the pain was that bad. Tears streamed down my cheeks and my mind was begging for the figure to release me from the pain.

"Please . . . " I whispered desperately.

The figure knelt by my head, a hand reaching out and stroking my hair. Fingers brushed against the largest wound on my head, making me hiss.

I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again.

Above me, Turpin smiled menacingly.

"Hello, Lucy."

"_NO!_"

I shot up. My hair was in a tangled mess, and had escaped this was sticking to my sweaty forehead. My heart pounded against my chest and my hands were shaking.

Looking around, I saw my pillows had been thrown to the floor and my sheets were tangled from my rolling around. I was in my room.

It was just a nightmare.

A few, fearful tears escaped my eyes and rolled down my cheeks; I wiped them away.

No one came to my room; they were used to me waking up in the night shouting and screaming. Mum used to check if I was alright, but after several angry orders that she leave me alone, she didn't bother anymore.

It was just a nightmare, but a terrible one.

I'd had nightmares before, but I'd never been effected by one like _this. _

Leaning back against my bedboard, I curled my legs up and brought them to my chest, hugging them close. Still shaking, I shut my eyes and rested my forehead against my knees.

I was scared. I'd be an idiot to say that I wasn't.

For the rest of that night, I didn't sleep.

* * *

For the second time, breakfast was a tense affair.

Dad sat at the head of the table, glaring at me over his paper. I glared back at him as often as I dared to, otherwise focusing on my toast. I wasn't eating it so much as pulling it apart with my fingers, the crumbs sprinkling across my plate.

Mum sat next to Dad, and I could feel her shooting worried looks in my direction. Emma and Ricky just stared down at their plates.

No one spoke. It seemed as if no one was breathing the room was that silent.

You could hear a pin drop.

The tense atmosphere didn't bother me; I was almost used to long silences and looks being exchanged. They occured more often than not in our household.

"I'm going to work," Ricky finally announced quietly, standing up. I watched him as he took his plate to the counter, leaving it by the sink, and then left. Before long, Emma followed suit; she didn't bother coming up with an excuse.

When my toast was no more than a large pile of crumbs, I stood up.

I expected Dad to tell me to sit back down, but he simply glared at me a final time before looking at his newspaper. I glanced at Mum, who looked back at me miserably.

Surprised but grateful, I returned to my room and got dressed. Sitting down in front of my mirror, I stared at my reflection.

There was no way to put it lightly. I looked awful.

My skin was pale, the scars from the accident more prominent than they had ever been before. Dark circles surrounded my bloodshot eyes. My hair, lank and tangled, loosely framed my sunken features.

A faint bruise had formed on my neck from where Turpin squeezed. My hand shaking, I carefully traced the bruise with my fingers.

Pushing all my hair back, pulling it into a ponytail, left my neck completely exposed, therefore showing the bruise. I stayed like that for a long time, holding my hair back in one hand while the other rested on the bruise.

Finally, I loosened my grip on my hair and let it fall around my shoulders, hiding the bruise.

I didn't say anything to my parents as I left the house, stepping out into the cool, crisp air of the outside. Shivering, I pulled my coat closer to myself and walked.

It didn't take long for me to arrive at Fleet Street, nor did it take much concentration. It was almost as if I went onto auto-pilot. My mind could be far away, but my feet would still direct me to Sweeney's shop.

Running up the steps, I didn't bother knocking on the door this time.

Sweeney was standing in front of the window, but upon hearing the door open, he turned to look at me. Within seconds, his blank expression turned to one of anger and - for a second or two - concern.

"What happened?" he demanded, striding forwards.

"Nothing," I said wearily. "I didn't sleep last night."

Sweeney frowned, but didn't say anything else. His concern was refreshing. Dad was angry with me and Mum seemed to have given up all together. Neither Ricky or Emma really spoke me now.

The feeling of safety and security enveloped me as I took my usual seat on the trunk, watching Sweeney turn his back on me and begin to pace.

"It's Turpin," I said, breaking the silence that had begun. "He's the murderer."

Sweeney gave me a scathing look. I was pointing out the obvious to him.

"I have evidence," I added.

Stopping in his pacing so abruptly it was almost comical, Sweeney turned to look at me.

"Evidence," he repeated flatly.

"Well, not really evidence but . . . " My voice trailed off. "I found the jewellery."

"What?" His eyebrows pulling together, Sweeney frowned at me. I shut my eyes, covering my face with my hands for a moment as I tried to gather my thoughts.

"I went to his house last night - "

"_What_?"

Opening my eyes, I saw Sweeney's initial expression before he cleverly disguised it with his anger.

It was fear.

"I went to his house last night," I repeated quietly. It was only now that the idea seemed idiotic. "I was hoping to find something to prove him guilty."

"Did you?"

"I said I found the jewellery," I snapped back. If it annoyed Sweeney, he hid it well. "Sorry," I mumbled, suddenly feeling guilty.

"What happened?" Sweeney asked in a low voice, staring at me with an urgence I'd never seen in his eyes before.

My hand went to my neck before I could stop it.

Immediately, Sweeney strode across the room. He stood over me, his height exceeding mine, and reached out.

He paused, hesitating for a moment. It was as if he was scared to touch me.

My eyes met his briefly before I looked away sheepishly. His hand gently pushed my hair over my shoulder, his skin brushing against mine. He was very cold, I noted.

Sweeney's eyes went to the bruise on my neck, a murderous rage suddenly flaring in him.

Spinning around, Sweeney stormed across the room and snatched his razor from the windowsill. He was very graceful in his rage, striding across the room once more and wrenching open the door.

Realisation dawned on me; I jumped up.

"No, wait!"

But he was already halfway down the stairs. I ran after him, jumping the last two, and followed him down the street.

"Wait!" I tried again, but he didn't pay me any attention.

Finally, I grabbed hold of his sleeve.

I clung on with as much strength as I could muster, refusing to let go even when he turned to face me. He glared at me furiously, but his anger was not directed at me.

"Don't do this," I begged.

"Give me one good reason not to," he hissed, yanking his arm from my grip and storming down the street again.

I thought desperately, my mind racing, before I finally thought of something.

"Because if you go over there, he's won!"

Sweeney stopped.

"Turpin didn't press charges against me breaking into his home," I said quickly, so not to give Sweeney time to decide to continue on his quest to kill Turpin. "But he'll sure as hell press charges against you."

"So?"

"So I'll be alone."

Sweeney was silent for a long time, finally turning around to face me.

"You're the only person who knows what he's capable of," I said slowly. "Without you, I'll be alone. And that's what Turpin wants."

Sweeney looked at me before looking away, a cloud of emotions forming in his eyes. I was suddenly reminded of a lost child, and so did the only thing I could think of.

Walking forwards, I weaved my hand into his.

His eyes snapped up to meet mine at the contact, and I could feel his whole body stiffen. I expected him to pull away.

He didn't.

"Please," I said softly, begging him. "Don't."

Sweeney looked at me for a long time and I looked back at him, wondering what he was going to do.

Finally, he relaxed and nodded.

Still holding hands, we walked back into the shop.

* * *

Thank you my two anonymous reviewers for reviewing!


	13. Chapter 13

_**13.**_

I drummed my fingers against my phone case, staring down at it as it rested on my lap. On the other side of the room, Sweeney was pacing back and forth.

Any sensible person would call the police, but I wasn't too sure.

Turpin was smart, smarter than I first assumed him to be. If I called the police, then he would probably twist it to make me look like a sick, traumatized teenager; I was lucky that he hadn't pressed charges against me breaking and entering. He could always change his mind, and that thought scared me.

I frowned.

Turpin was the murderer, I was certain of it, but no one else believed me.

No one but Sweeney.

"What?" he demanded of me, seeing my frown.

"Nothing," I said quietly, still frowning. I then added, "Do you think I should call the police?"

Sweeney snorted under his breath, suggesting that the police could do something anatomically impossible to themselves. I wasn't shocked; Emma was just as vulgar.

"They could help," I said.

"How?"

"They could . . . search Turpin's house." I shrugged half heartedly. "If they find the jewellery, then that's evidence, isn't it?"

"How do you know that Turpin hasn't already disposed of it?"

"I don't."

Sighing, Sweeney turned his back on me.

"There's no harm in trying though, is there?" I asked, standing up. "Say that he hasn't disposed of it, what then? The police will find it and he'll go to prison!"

"You do not know him, Lucy," Sweeney snapped. "I do. He is smart."

"I know that," I said impatiently. "We just have to play him at his own game!"

"And how do you propose we do that?"

I faltered slightly.

"I . . . I . . . "

"Exactly," Sweeney said. "Inform the police if you must, but be aware of the consequences."

"What if I went back?" I suggested. "What if I went to Turpin's house and - "

"No."

"What?"

Sweeney grabbed my shoulders then, his fingers digging into my skin, and met my eyes with his own.

"I forbid you from going anywhere near that house," he hissed.

"But - "

"But nothing, Lucy. That man could've killed you last time."

"He didn't though!" I insisted. "He could've but he didn't!"

"Why risk it again?"

"Because if I don't, more innocent women are going to get murdered!"

Sweeney and I stared at each other for a long time; the phrase _an unstoppable force meets an immovable object_ sprung to my mind. Neither of us was willing to back down and both of us thought we were right.

Slowly, Sweeney released my shoulders, stepping back.

"Don't go back to his house," he said quietly. It wasn't an order, but more of a plead. He looked so vulnerable that I felt guilty.

"I won't," I promised.

Sweeney stared down at me for a long time and I stared back determinedly, refusing to look away.

"Fine," he finally said, turning his back on me.

I hesitated slightly before standing next to him by the window, leaning against the windowsill. London was dark and dirty beneath.

"I should probably call the police," I said miserably.

"If you must."

I sighed.

"I'll think about it. I just can't think of anything else to do."

Sweeney's hand descended on my shoulder and I looked up at him in surprise; it was such a kind, reassuring gesture. He looked down at me.

"Don't do anything stupid," he warned. I grinned sheepishly.

"I already broke into his house," I said. "What other shenanigans can I get myself into?"

"I dread to think."

Laughing, I pushed myself off the windowsill and crossed the room, picking up my jacket.

"I should probably go home before my parents call the police," I said. "I'll be back tomorrow."

Sweeney's reply was a quiet noise of agreement. I smiled at him.

"Thank you," I said.

"What for?"

"I don't know. Everything, I guess."

* * *

When I got home, the whole family was separated.

Mum was in the living room, reading her book in a rare moment of peace, while Dad was in the dining room with his work. I could hear Ricky's TV blaring and when I walked past Emma's room, I heard her chattering away on her mobile. We were never really a family that did things together, but now we just seemed distanced.

I sighed. It was my fault.

In my room, I kicked off my shoes and shrugged my jacket off, dropping them both on the floor. My room was getting messier by the day.

"Maybe you should clean it up," a familiar voice said. Claire was sitting on my bed.

I smiled weakly. "You of all people know that I can't do that."

"Can't means won't and won't means - "

"Detention," I finished. It was the favourite saying of our year seven geography teacher.

Slowly, I crossed my room and sat down on my bed across from Claire, staring at her. Up close, I could see every little detail of her face - the freckles that dusted her cheek and the bridge of her nose, her dimples when she grinned and the slight scar on her chin from when she fell of the climbing frame. I always thought that she was pretty.

"Why are you here, Claire?" I asked her.

"I'm not," she said. "I'm six feet under, remember?"

"Then how are you in my room?"

"I don't know. Maybe this is all your imagination."

I frowned, shutting my eyes.

When they opened, Claire was gone.

Sighing, I lay down so I was lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling. Everything was just so _confusing._

I supposed I should tell someone about seeing my dead friends, because that definitely wasn't normal. But who would believe me?

It felt like my control over my life was slowly spiralling away from me, and that thought made me feel uneasy. I couldn't lose control of my life, not now, not when I needed it most.

Still, there was one thing I could do.

Reaching into my pocket, I took out my phone and flipped it open, quickly typing out a number. When it started ringing, I held it up to my ear.

"Yes," I said. "Police please."

* * *

Yes, I have finally updated. I'm sorry for the long wait but I had such a severe case of writer's block regarding this fic that I had no other choice than to put it on hiatus. Hopefully that block has been cured.

Thank you dionne dance and TheWildHeffernan for reviewing!

Happy Easter everyone!


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